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Alfred Austin - The Human Tragedy ACT III
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1 2 3 
Personages:
     Godfrid—
     Gilbert—
     Miriam—
     Olympia.

      Protagonists:
     Love—
     Religion—
    * Patriotism.


Place: Capri—Mentana.
Time: October-November 1867

 The laggard Child of Liberty and Light,
 Long travailed by the centuries, now was born:
 She had put off the obloquy of night,
 And like a Goddess stood, facing the morn.
 Minerva`s self had not more full—grown might
 At her swift birth;—a thing no more to scorn.
 A turret—crown crested her forehead clear;
 Calm was her front, and in her hand a spear.

 The Long—expected of the Nations stood
 Resplendent on the mountains; Morning sang
 For heart of joy, and o`er the crisp blue flood
 That laves soft shores, a jubilant paean rang.
 There was a stir sent through the old world`s blood,
 And long—hushed lyres lent dithyrambic clang.
 Hope was rethroned upon her ancient seat,
 And pining peoples came and kissed her feet.

 No more by stagnant water, oozing walls,
 Listening to silence, Venice crouched and wept;
 A glow was on her palaces; her halls
 Echoed once more to sounds that long had slept.
 Last of the dull Barbarian`s dainty thralls
 To feel her limbs, up to her feet she leapt,
 Clasping her Lombard brother by the hand,
 While throbs of welcome trembled through the land.

 For, ere her woe had moved the heart of ruth,
 Day on her lone divided kindred broke.
 The bright Parthenope renewed her youth,
 And lithe Etruria slipped the tyrant`s yoke.
 Umbria shook off the gnawing church—wolf`s tooth,
 And, happy once again, Campania woke;
 And round rent Savoy`s Cross as hot they pressed,
 Italia clasped her children to her breast.

 All—all,—save one! Rome still in bondage lay,
 Writhing beneath the Hierarch`s heavy heel;
 The eldest—born of that renowned array,
 From franchised kith cut off by warding steel.
 For fitful Gaul, whose horns were first to bray
 Salvation o`er the hilltop, feebly leal
 To its own dream, from such high quest had ceased,
 Playing scorned gaoler to a trembling priest.

 So every eye and heart were turned to Rome,
 And hands were sworn to vengeance. Maidens thrust
 Their lovers from them, spurning peaceful home
 While blade still crouched in scabbard, lolled in rust.
 As with the share they ploughed the rippling loam,
 Or round their limbs there plashed the purple must,
 All sang of Rome: ``Rome, Rome shall yet be ours!
 Sleep, Tyrants, sleep! we count the ripening hours.``

 The sickle`s arm caressed the lissom corn,
 To strains that throbbed of Rome; the blade that pruned
 The shading elm or lopped the straggling thorn,
 At each brave stroke to songs of Rome was tuned.
 The shepherd boy upon the hills forlorn,
 When his tired flock to sweet siesta swooned,
 On his rude reed piped plaintively of Rome,
 And, tiny patriot, heaved a sigh for home.

 The wind that shrilled through each adventurous shroud
 That skimmed the Tyrrhene sea, rang loud of Rome;
 To songs of Rome were timed the arms that bowed
 O`er Hadria`s oar or clave Liguria`s foam.
 The quarry`s hollow bosom echoed loud
 The self—same note; and where the chamois clomb
 In fancied fastness, `twas that ditty sweet,—
 Sweet if yet sad,—that scared its flying feet.

 Round the warm hearth or under chilly stars
 Men gathered, `mong themselves discoursing low;
 And as the stalwart grimly stroked their scars,
 Bold striplings murmured, ``We, too, sure shall go?``
 Now every brawny babe was gat of Mars,
 And suckled by a she—wolf; bred to grow
 To kingly valour, by its blood impelled
 To rear a Rome diviner than of eld.

 But they who ruled the land since death had dragged
 Down to its greedy cave the daring mind
 That staked, to swell, its fortunes, sate as gagged,
 And in the swathes of policy confined.
 With halting gait the would—be leaders lagged
 Behind the led, and feebly watched the wind,
 Nursing a craven hope that Fortune`s wheel
 Would drop the prize they feared to snatch by steel.

 So to the rocky home of him who still
 Bore Aspromonte`s bullet in his flesh,
 Men`s hope was turned, that soon his chafing will
 Would whet the blade and lift the flag afresh;
 That he, their Cincinnatus, tied to till
 Idly the niggard soil, would rend the mesh
 The alien round him wove, and, long—implored,
 Beat out at last his ploughshare to a sword.

 There is an isle, kissed by a smiling sea,
 Where all sweet confluents meet: a thing of heaven,
 A spent aërolite, that well may be
 The missing sister of the starry Seven.
 Celestial beauty nestles at its knee,
 And in its lap is nought of earthly leaven.
 Girdled and crowned with loveliness, its year
 Is circling summer; winter comes not near.

 `Tis small, as things of beauty ofttimes are,
 And in a morning round it you may row,
 Nor need a tedious haste your bark debar
 From gliding inward where the ripples flow
 Into strange grots whose roof is azure spar,
 Whose pavement liquid silver. Mild winds blow
 Around your prow, and at your keel the foam,
 Leaping and laughing, freshly wafts you home.

 They call the island Capri;—with a name
 Dulling an airy dream, just as the soul
 Is clogged with body palpable;—and Fame
 Hath longwhile winged the word from pole to pole.
 Its human story is a tale of shame,
 Of all unnatural lusts a gory scroll,
 Record of what, when pomp and power agree,
 Man once hath been, and man again may be.

 Terrace and slope from shore to summit show
 Of each rich clime the glad—surrendered spoil.
 Here the bright olive`s phantom branches glow,
 There the plump fig sucks sweetness from the soil.
 Nigh fragrant blossoms that through the Zodiac blow,
 Returning tenfold to man`s leisured toil,
 Hesperia`s fruit hangs golden. High in air,
 The vine runs riot, spurning human care.

 And flowers of every hue and breath abound,
 Charming the sense; the burning cactus glows,
 Like daisies elsewhere dappling all the ground,
 And in each cleft the berried myrtle blows.
 The playful lizard glides and darts around,
 The elfin fireflies flicker o`er the rows
 Of ripened grain. Alien to pain and wrong,
 Men fill the days with dance, the nights with song.

 Upon a beetling cliff, eyeing the flood,
 Stood one in prime of years; but there was that
 In his grave gaze which told of storms withstood,
 And on his brow a lofty patience sate.
 His was the tranquil mien of one who would
 Wrestle with fate and lay obstruction flat,
 But lets the meaner ills of life go by,
 Bears small shafts dumb, nor gives lewd tongues the lie.

  With Italy`s flowing fortunes Godfrid`s sword,
 On victory`s wave upborne, had followed still:
 Fleshed on that day when first the Austrian horde
 Was swept from Lombard plain, nor sheathed until
 The unclean Bourbon monster lay and roared,
 Like old Typhoeus under Ischia`s hill,
 And from Romagna`s gangrened flesh and worn
 Amortised limbs, were priest—clinched shackles torn.

 Then came that chilling pause, when though from peak
 Of Apennine and Alp to dimpling wave
 The glow of Freedom mantled o`er the cheek
 Of the fair land, in shadow of the grave
 Rome grovelled mute, and Venice, pale and weak,
 Sobbed `neath her Teuton ravisher,—lovely slave,
 Who, reared at Liberty`s maternal knee,
 Yearned for the pure embraces of the free.

 Even to her, deliverance came at last,
 Yet not in the sweet guise brave men had dreamed.
 Though Italy aside the scabbard cast,
 Upon her blade no ray of victory gleamed.
 But `mong the realms by force and fraud amassed
 While rival robbers each from other schemed
 To filch a province for his own domain,
 Then Venice seized the hour, and slipped her chain.

 Not on Custozza`s baleful field, but where
 Trent cleaves Tyrolean Alp, had Godfrid fought,
 And, when the sword was sheathed, within this fair
 Famed isle at once a home and watch—tower sought,
 Waiting for day to dawn on Rome`s despair;
 And hither oft would come, and, steeped in thought,
 Silently watch from Capri`s sunny brow
 The soft sea lave its feet, even as now.

 Here, too, when drooped awhile the wind of war,
 Which, blowing up from Freedom`s freshening wave,
 Scattered the clouds that dimmed Italia`s star,
 Returning to its sheath reluctant glaive,
 Had Gilbert safe retired, and from afar
 Watched for the day to dawn on priest and slave,
 And fill the lungs which now drew sleepy breath
 With the awakening watchword, ``Rome or Death!``

 When first the noise of battle smote his ears,
 He was as one who, reckless of dismay,
 Seeks but to reach the bristling hedge of spears,
 And on their point to fling his life away.
 But wayward death, which follows him that fears,
 Fears him that follows, still refused to slay
 One who pursued its steps from field to field,
 And found in scorn of life life`s surest shield.

 But as in vain he fought for his own doom,
 Winning but glory where he sought for rest,
 The Cause espoused in hope to find a tomb
 Began for its own sake to wed his breast.
 There, once ensconced, it drove out idle gloom,
 Bade sluttish sorrow do male will`s behest,
 Aired the close chamber of his grief—locked brain,
 And through his life made ordered purpose reign.

 The wealth he had inherited, not won,
 Which most who win or herit, swinish spend
 Luxuriously lolling in the sun,
 Till their plethoric wallowing comes to end,
 Seen with his opened eyes, belonged to none,
 Not even to him, except as Freedom`s friend,
 A passing trust which Heaven would judge at last,
 Bequeathed to endless future by the past.

 Something of this from Godfrid had he learned,
 Who, earlier versed in wisdom`s generous lore,
 When once he found his counsels were not spurned,
 Urged them on Gilbert ever more and more.
 But many the bark that never hath returned
 Unto the hand that pushed it from the shore;
 And, Gilbert once inspired by Godfrid`s mind,
 The pupil soon the mentor left behind.

 The frantic watchword which, when blown aloud,
 Hath ofttimes fooled the good, but ne`er the wise,
 Of ``Rulers, pass your sceptre to the crowd!``
 Godfrid could but distrust, indeed despise.
 Nor because he himself had disallowed
 The altar`s claim to bind or bow his eyes,
 Joined he with those who, reckless of the end,
 Treat as his direst foe man`s kindest friend.

 But few there be who in a world unfair,
 Unbalanced, still keep equitable mind.
 And Gilbert, giddy with the bracing air
 Of freedom, looked before him nor behind.
 Of its swift treacherous tempests unaware,
 Nor his sails reefing with the rising wind,
 The mad gusts circling in his un—taut shrouds,
 Unpoised he drifted with the drifting clouds.

Thus each crude enterprise and yeasty vow
 That borrowed freedom`s flag had Gilbert shared,
 Though Godfrid stood apart with blaming brow,
 Nor moved till clear the Royal trumpet blared.
 And as it had been hitherto, so now.
 The self—made track which tortuous rashness dared,
 Still pushing on towards Rome, while one essayed,
 One by the king`s highway the journey made.

 But never near the twain came grudge or wrath
 To flaw the friendship sanctioned by the grave;
 And Godfrid, leaning on the mossy cloth
 Which draped the wall that overlooks the wave,
 Far down soft—fretting into pearly froth,
 Or lithely crinkling into gravelly cave,
 Was joined by Gilbert, who had left his skiff
 Tethered below, and climbed the staircased cliff.

 Awhile they both were silent; side by side,
 Gazing across the scarcely—rippling bay
 To the low shore where, curving deep and wide,
 Then up the hill half climbing, Naples lay.
 Or, did one speak, the other scarce replied;
 For only triflers spoil the summer—day
 With purposeless quick babble, vexing ears
 That fain would list to sound which silence hears.

 But when this silence seemed to reach its noon,
 Gilbert began, with slowly earnest tone,
 To speak of freshly burgeoned hope, which soon
 Would into full luxuriance be grown,
 That foully—ravished Rome no more should croon
 Upon her desolate hearth, but, vengeful grown,
 And driving tonsured Tarquins from her door,
 Renew the conquering Commonwealth of yore.

 Godfrid had listened to the ardent tale,
 Unmoved, nor wondering. But when it was done,
 Fixing his gaze on a white—bosomed sail,
 Far off, which, lightly heaving in the sun,
 Seemed its own guide, own counsel, and own gale,
 And in the track of its own hope to run,
 With unpremeditated words which take
 Shape from past meditation, thuswise spake:

 ``You trust me still, and you do well to trust;
 For I who yet must blame, shall not betray.
 Brighten your blade then. Mine, alas! must rust.
 Sage peace is sadder than insanest fray.
 Yet once more hear me, Gilbert! and be just.
 Is Aspromonte`s lesson thrown away?
 Is the throne false? The nation`s hunger dulled?
 Or Turin`s senate`s solemn vote annulled?

 ``By all the lineal titles of the past,
 By this to—day`s inheritance, by ties,
 Already future—sanctioned, that shall last,
 Rome will be gathered to Italian skies.
 Wait! they but stumble who would step too fast.
 Foresight and fate, the foolish and the wise,
 Alike push on the hour that snaps the yoke.
 Watch we the moving hands, and bide the stroke.

 ``Enough to purge this land of alien lords,
 And weld its many sceptres into one;
 And thanks to smiling Heaven and smiting swords,
 The patient piecemeal task is wellnigh done.
 I see the straining of the worn—out cords,
 By potent hands in other ages spun,
 Potent no more, and know that Rome will be
 The crown, that was the crib, of Italy.

 ``But though from the Tiara we must strike
 One storey of the too proud edifice,
 Need we assail the crook to wrench the pike?
 Ah! Gilbert! Gilbert! We should do amiss.
 `Ware how you weaken force and faith alike.
 Reason and reverence first must learn to kiss.
 The centuried growth it is which props the walls.
 Tear down the ivy, and the ruin falls.``

 Gilbert replied not; for the closing words,
 Like melancholy music, made him mute.
 Mute too was all, save where the slow sea—birds
 Plained, or behind them dropped some o`er—ripe fruit,
 Or, in far cleft, bleated the bearded herds.
 At length, with scant farewell and hasty foot,
 He turned him from the spot, and, to the shore
 Descending,—Godfrid stood alone once more.

 Absorbed in luscious idleness he seemed,
 Watching the languid ripples crawl to land,
 As one whose bliss was deepest when he dreamed,
 And who earth`s beauty rather felt than scanned.
 Yet oftentimes the soul all sailless deemed
 By trivial gaze, with inward fire is fanned,
 And, neither baulked by wave nor helped by wind,
 Cleaves life`s rough surf, when gay barks lag behind.

 But brief his re—found solitude; for soon,
 Among the vines which clustered thick behind,
 There came a maid, singing a mountain tune.
 And, as she moved, vagrant as summer wind,
 The bright green leaves into a long festoon
 She wove, and round her crimson kirtle twined.
 Crimson her bodice, white her brimming vest,
 And white the kerchief folded o`er her breast.

 Her skin was lustrous as the ripening grape,
 And, like the grape`s, the sanguine flesh beamed through;
 Her eye could match the olive`s dainty shape,
 And far outshone its darkly—burnished hue.
 Twisted in coils above the massive nape,
 Her classic hair grand memories might renew,
 Back from her brow, free from fantastic wiles,
 Rippling like ocean, when dark ocean smiles.

  She was not learnëd in that bookish lore
 Which men call knowledge; but her arms could ply
 In the stiff surge withal a valorous oar,
 And quick hands make the flashing shuttle fly.
 It was her fingers wove the dress she wore,
 What time the night held more than half the sky;
 And when the days were long, from dawn to close
 Still would she climb, nor ever crave repose.

 And yet she was a woman,—gently framed
 For loving purposes. The murderous snare
 She never set, nor barrel deadly—aimed
 At bird or beast consented she to bear.
 Even in the fishers` net her hands disclaimed
 All helpful service; but when none were there,
 Oft she disported in the genial tide,
 With surging breast keeling the foam aside.

 The womb that bore her, like a tree with fruit
 Too rich and rare, had perished with her birth;
 And, ere she lisped, her father`s voice was mute
 For aye, and she was left alone on earth.
 No, not alone; for every native lute
 Was tuned to move her little feet to mirth;
 And now along the mainland, many a mile,
 Men sang the lovely Orphan of the Isle.

 In either hand a bunch of grapes she held:
 The left were garnet, opal were the right;
 Clustering and tapering, full—veined, sunshine—swelled,
 They would have filled Iacchus with delight;
 One of whose Charities of early eld
 She seemed, with every genial grace bedight;
 That gentle Triad who the innocent earth
 Girdled with music, modesty, and mirth.

 And as she came anear, the juicy bells
 She merrily held and dangled in his face.
 ``Eat, eat of these; for old tradition tells
 They melancholy`s darkest cloud can chase;``
 Then with that frank simplicity which dwells
 Alone with unsophisticated grace,
 Archly went on, ``Accept the simple cheer;
 My tithe to him who preaches all the year.``

 ``Thanks for my tithe, dear Miriam,`` Godfrid said;
 ``Perchance it is a trifle overdue;
 But lo! you pay me interest instead:—
 I cross old scores, and we commence anew.
 `Tis fortunate you came; for in my head
 There runs another sermon. Nay, `tis true,
 And I will preach it. Come, be patient, dear.
 See, there are only we, and waves, to hear.``

 ``Suppose,``—and on the rocky ledge that lay
 Between them and the leap to death below,
 He spread the comely gift,—``suppose that they
 Who coaxed the unreflecting vine to throw
 Its tendrils out, and trustingly display
 The swelling beads to heaven`s seductive glow,
 When they were ripe and bursting, even as now,
 Should turn away, and leave them on the bough?—

 ``Leave them to shrink and wizen in the wind,
 For the hot sun that fostered root and stem
 To scorch their moist pulp, burn their cooling rind,
 And all the airs of heaven to rifle them,
 Though caves meanwhile with empty vats were lined,
 And throats as dry as some trite apophthegm?
 Suppose that this should happen,—here,—to—day,—
 Here, in our Capri,—what would Miriam say?``

 ``Why, that the folks were mad. But there`s no fear.
 Your parable lacks truth. Nay, look around!
 The joyous vintage hours are circling near,
 And wine—stirred feet ere long shall beat the ground.
 They come, they come, the merry band! I hear
 Our light—long toil in songs of plenty drowned;
 We wreathe our brow with vine—leaves, and we sing,
 While cape and creek with laughing echoes ring.``

 ``Right merrily answered, Miriam, and right true.
 Yet hearken to me, dear! There is a God,
 To whom the God of Wine is a deity new,
 A thing of yesterday, a faun, a clod,
 A tipsy nothing! Nay, I warrant you,
 That long ere Bacchus breathed into the sod
 The secret of the grape, the God of Love
 Owned this fair world and shared the world above.

 ``Yes, wine is good; it thaws the ice—bound breast,
 And fancy`s fretful—pawing steed unchains,
 Rouses the torpid soul from churlish rest,
 With floods of summer flushing wintry veins.
 `Tis wine that flutters the poet in his nest,
 Plumes his light wing and warms his liquid strains,
 Curtails long nights, and hath the charm to steep
 Outwearied limbs in deep undreaming sleep.

 ``Yes, wine is good, but love is better still;
 For it assails the pulses of the heart
 With swift yet soft suffusions. Love can fill
 Life`s vacant hollows, worse than any smart,
 With pleasant tumult, surging joys that thrill
 The silent soul to music. `Tis an art
 Which maketh poets of us all; we sing
 Like Sappho`s self, when love once tunes the string.

 ``Its children are delicious dreams, that haunt
 The brain awake or sleeping; its bright lures
 Alone confer the ecstasy they vaunt,
 The one divine delirium that endures.
 On love`s light step attend no shadows gaunt,
 And all its own sweet wounds its sweet self cures.
 It fans but feeds the warmly—glowing flesh,
 And slakes the thirst it still creates afresh.

 ``But love, like these fair tokens of the vine,
 Hath, too, its times and seasons. First, its spring;
 Days of sweet doubt and fear, when smiles like thine,
 Daintier than tendrils, to the fancy cling.
 Next, its enticing summer, when the bine
 Of hope unfolds its tremulous covering,
 And softly—swelling vows, love`s crowning gift,
 Fed by its life—blood, peep through each green rift.

 ``Then, last of all, love`s luscious autumn time,
 When all its dreams have ripened. Fear hath fled.
 No more the heart suspicion`s chilling rime
 Or blight of scorching jealousy need dread.
 Love`s hour is here; love`s vintage—bells may chime,
 And love`s festoons be wreathed round board and bed.
 He reels with ripeness: press his sweetness out,
 Whilst the hills echo with the valley`s shout.

 ``But haply should we scorn mature desire,
 Nor love`s full—teeming wealth make haste to press,
 Why, then it shrivels of its own spurned fire,
 And straight its goodly promise perishes.
 Then shall no love—cup cheat the toils that tire,
 Nor care be chased by wedlock`s staunch caress.
 Yes, mad indeed, we have squandered all our store,
 The harvest of our youth, which comes no more.

 ``Nay, listen to me, Miriam! for I speak
 A parable that lacks nor truth nor aim.
 Answer me truly: have I far to seek
 To point the moral that I scarce need name?
 Do I not read in rosy—glowing cheek,
 In palpitating vein, in eye aflame,
 Love in your heart would build himself a nest,
 If you will only house that gentle guest?

 ``Why, why repel him, why indeed delay,
 Since he hath come in so mature a guise?
 Look down; `tis Gilbert`s bark that cleaves the spray
 Far at our feet, his arm the oar that plies.
 What if time`s touch hath flecked his beard with gray,
 It veils a breast more steadfast and more wise.
 Ah! Youth in man is fickle! Not the fire
 That warms the hearth is fed on green desire.

 ``He is a noble gentleman and true,
 Whom sorrow hath made firm. He loves you, dear,
 And still will love you when the dazzling dew
 Of youth no more shall in your cheek appear.
 I am no messenger; no more than you,
 Hath he confessed his secret to my ear.
 But Love is a silent babbler, and I need
 No words of his or yours, your hearts to read.

 ``Nor can you plead him alien in blood,
 For he hath made your country`s cause his own.
 Have I not seen him in the sanguine flood
 Through which she waded to her rightful throne,
 And by the bayonet`s threat and cannon`s thud
 Marked his tame port of peace heroic grown?
 And when he deemed the hour to do or die
 For Rome had struck, did not his soul reply?``

 ``O yes!`` she answered, glowing as she spake,
 His last words flushing her dark cheek with fire,
 ``I know that he would die for Italy`s sake,
 And that is why—I swear it by my sire,
 My mother`s sacred dust, my country`s ache!—
 I yet will give him all his soul`s desire!
 Thou art my more than brother; he shall be
 Second to none,—not, Godfrid, e`en to thee!

 ``Yet listen to me in turn, albeit I sound
 Beggar in fancies that enrich your tongue.
 I said but now that none so mad were found,
 Who, when these clusters full to falling hung
 From stalk and stem, and o`er the happy ground
 From tree to tree in drooping garlands swung,
 Would scorn the sweet pulp bursting through the rind,
 And leave the jocund juice to feed the wind.

 ``But see! Our vintage dawns. Yet do you doubt,
 That if to—morrow, though brave loins were girt,
 Brisk sleeves knit up, our baskets spread about,
 The scoured vats all agape for wine to spirt
 Down their huge throats, we heard a sudden shout
 Of `Rome or Death!` and saw the brave red shirt
 Flame like a beacon,—we should, one and all,
 Leave vat, leave vine, responsive to the call?

 ``Should we not quit the harvest of the year,
 To gather in the harvest of all time?
 He,—you,—yes I!—leave grape and grain, nor fear
 To reap `mid thirst and want a store sublime?
 Swords were our sickles then; the dewlapped steer
 No more with purple load our slopes would climb;
 Its peaceful flank in warlike wains would foam,
 Splashed with their blood who barred the path to Rome!

 ``Bear with me then, I pray, my brother kind,
 And bid him bear awhile whose love I prize.
 So long as the Priest—King my kith shall bind
 In Peter`s chains,—well, Rome hath all my sighs!
 I have no heart for tenderness, no mind
 For pillowed sweets, no ear for baby cries.
 Oh! I should blush were conflict`s thrilling noise
 To reach me, cooing over selfish joys!``

 She ceased; and he was silent in his soul,
 Drinking her noble rhetoric. But while each
 Watched mute the creamy ripples landward roll,
 Up the rude path that zigzagged from the beach,
 A bright—eyed urchin, with a fluttering scroll,
 Skipping and tumbling came,—too blown for speech;
 His damson—coloured cheeks with speed aglow,
 And tangled curls, left in the breeze to blow.

 Hearing the swift step, Godfrid turned his head,
 And quick the little Mercury, pressed for breath,
 Thrust in his hand the scroll, then, panting, said,
 ``Read—read! the game`s afoot of `Rome or Death!`
 See! Garibaldi from his isle hath sped,
 And the whole land to join him hasteneth.
 All Naples is astir; and look! they write,
 This time the King will cheer, not foil, the fight.``

 And as he spoke, and Godfrid scanned the scroll,
 And saw that he spoke true, again the shout
 Of ``Rome or Death!`` burst on his startled soul.
 And half—way down to wave, where jutted out
 From skeleton crag a green and grassy mole,
 Down—peering spied they Gilbert, waving about
 A blood—red flag, and loud with lusty breath
 Crying, ``Come! Godfrid! Miriam! Rome or Death!``

 As swift as light, Miriam round Godfrid`s neck
 Flung tight her arms, and nigh as quickly loosed;
 Then, without more ado or ever a check,
 Down the steep path they ran, like streams unsluiced:
 So fast, that soon the summit was a speck
 Where late they stood,—the sea—bird`s stormy roost.
 And audibly now they heard the billows bound,
 Which there had seemed to die without a sound.

 And, ever as they sped, waxed loud and oft
 The cry, ``Rome, Rome or Death!`` Each feathery holt,
 Each sinuous down, each peak that pricked aloft,
 Flung back the words, echoing the grand revolt.
 And swift from vineyard, terrace, garden, croft,
 As, straight on lightning, swoops the thunderbolt,
 Flashed all the folk, in gathering crowd and roar,
 And with one pulse descending to the shore.

 Thither too, whooping loud, thronged untamed boys,
 Bare—browed, bare—breasted, gemmed with eager eyes,
 With rapid questions heightening all the noise,
 Then breaking off, nor waiting for replies.
 And glowing maids were there, full ripe for joys
 Not found in battle: Goddesses in size,
 With massive pitcher on their heads, at ease
 Standing like stalwart Caryatides;

 Nor moving lip, but with full gaze intent
 On lovers yesternight intent to woo,
 Who now no more coined words of blandishment,
 But arched their blades, and felt the edge was true.
 Over their serried shoulders forward leant,
 With craning necks and faces sharp to view,
 Low—chattering crones, wailing the lonely lot
 Of these thus left, who heard but heeded not.

 And, last of all, grave matrons joined the throng,
 Babe upon arm, that only lisped as yet
 The name of Rome and mother;—grave and strong,
 With thoughtful brow and eye, but cheek unwet:
 While through the crowd bent graybeards hobbled along,
 Blessing the Lord that, ere their sun had set,
 They had seen this day; yet railing half at Fate,
 That sent salvation, for their aid too late.

 Then high debate arose who first should go,
 Who linger last, and who at home must stay.
 Some, fledged with shafts of death from tip to toe,
 Vowed none should snatch or turn them from the fray;
 Some could a rusty matchlock only show,
 And some a rough—edged billhook but display;
 These from the hearth had snatched up smouldering brands,
 And those had brawny thews but empty hands.

 But, once upon the mainland, arms would swift
 For all be found. And, as they babbled, came
 Women and girls with many a farewell gift:
 Strings of fat quails for which the isle hath fame,
 And figs distilling honey through each rift
 In their moist pulp; bread, worthy sure to name
 Even as to give; huge bunches from the vine
 Now newly plucked; and flasks of rosy wine.

 Meanwhile from where, under the frowning cliff,
 In days gone by long waves had worn a cave,
 Godfrid and Gilbert dragged a light—oared skiff,
 And straight the sharp keel through the shingle drave.
 A moment at the sand—bar halting stiff,
 It heeled, then lurched; and, as it touched the wave,
 The waters rose to take it, and it lay
 Trembling with gladness on the circling spray.

 Her uncowled face lit by a steadfast smile,
 Into the boat first Miriam lightly stepped;
 Two sinewy youths, the pick of all the isle,
 Followed, and briskly to their places leapt;
 Then Gilbert, and last Godfrid. Poised awhile,
 Down swooped the oars, and swift away they swept:
 The lined shore crying after them, ``Death or Rome!
 Swift speed your bark! we follow in its foam.``

 Soon on the left rough Massa rose to view,
 Then soft Sorrento. Now they swept along
 Past populous shores where vine—veiled ashes strew
 Cities that echoed once to dance and song.
 Far to the right dark Ischia flecked the blue,
 Where Nature`s penitent hand smooths ancient wrong;
 And soon the mighty cone began to loom,
 That floods with streams of death its fiery womb.

 But close behind them now they caught the hum
 Of many voices, and the rising roar
 Of noisy Naples, mingled with the strum
 And twang of sharp guitar along the shore.
 A moment more, and with the cry ``We come,``
 Bare—legged and Phrygian—capped, upon them bore
 A rush of boatmen, voluble of speech,
 Who drew the light skiff swiftly up the beach.

 Then out they sprang,—first Miriam, Gilbert next,
 Last Godfrid,—and the eager host pressed round;
 Rude fishermen, hoarse women half unsexed,
 And nude sea—urchins frisking o`er the ground.
 Each with chaotic shout their ears perplexed,
 Question and answer in the hubbub drowned,
 O`er which there surged alone, as springs the foam
 Above loud waves, the cry of ``Death or Rome!``

 But as they thrust the frenzied crowd aside,
 And pushed on to the city`s beating heart,
 At every step their hopes grew verified,
 And warlike omens bade their doubts depart.
 Men, new in arms, gathering from far and wide,
 Made but a martial muster—ground the mart.
 Churches were changed to barracks; and the cars
 Of Ceres` self were given up to Mars.

 The very streets volcanic seemed and roared
 Like Somma`s fiery self, and seething flowed
 With streams of living lava, ever poured
 Hot from the City`s innermost abode.
 And, over all, ever and anon there soared
 Convulsive detonations, such as goad
 To agony of madness feet that fly
 Waveward, when roused Vesuvius shells the sky!

 And then night fell, and fairy lamps shone out
 From balcony and lattice. High in air,
 Gay gonfalons were lightly blown about,
 And at the windows crowded faces fair.
 Shrill lads upon the pavement thronged to shout
 The great news forth, and in the shining square,
 Hard by the Palace, flushed with jets of light,
 Men stood in groups and fought the coming fight.

 Just ere the hour drew near for lamps to fade
 And the dense crowd to melt away to rest,
 Far up Toledo shrilling trumpet brayed.
 Straight at the sound, thither all footsteps pressed,
 And, as if ranged for battle`s stern parade,
 Formed in deep files and long lines drawn abreast,
 And, close in phalanx packed, with ringing cheer,
 ``Evviva Italia! Evviva!`` rent the ear.

 Rang out once more the clarion`s cleaving blare,
 And rudely rumbled hollow—bowelled drum;
 Then strains of martial music stormed the air,
 And away they strode, steps sounding but lips dumb.
 But at the windows, still, cheered voices fair,
 And waved white kerchiefs gallantly; while some
 Sweet flowers drew forth from bosoms yet more sweet,
 And showered them down to kiss the tramping feet.

 Then midnight tolled, and all the city was still.
 Inarime lay darkling on the sea;
 Faint spikes of flame tipped Somma`s murky hill,
 And on the shore the waves died silently.
 The fabled fields the Mantuan`s wizard quill
 Steeps in undying glamour, seemed to be
 Once more Elysian, and the night—winds lay
 Cradled on Baiae`s ruin—pebbled bay.

 Gay broke the morn, and now along the land,
 On with the day the joyous tidings grew;
 Passed the fleet spray round Spartivento`s strand,
 And raced with Manfredonia`s billows blue.
 Swifter than falcon by Libeccio fanned,
 Up the long straggling Apennine it flew,
 And, lithe as mist by sunrise skyward drawn,
 Scaled Alpine peak and, bright, proclaimed the dawn.

 It brought the lilies out in Florence fair,
 Flooded with life Bologna`s grim arcades,
 Fluttered the doves in Venice` marble square,
 Filled Milan`s thrifty streets with generous blades.
 Perugia`s griffin laid his talons bare,
 The lion leaped from Padua`s learnëd shades;
 And Turin`s generous beast, prompt at the sound,
 Lowered his horned front, and, pawing, shook the ground.

 Far off upon the mountain`s marble side,
 In rough—hewn amphitheatres whose bold tiers,
 Scaling the sky, white crowned with blue, defied
 With unprotected front the pitiless years,—
 Round huge blocks coiling nervous rope tight—tied,
 Or urging sinewy bullock with goads and jeers,
 Carrara`s sun—scorched toilers at the sound
 Unwonted paused, and wildly stared around.

 Steadying with brawny thews through rich brown soil
 The unwieldy antique plough that Rhea`s son
 Drave round his regal Palatine, lusty swains
 The challenge heard, and, as at signal gun,
 Left the unfinished furrow; left their wains
 Standing half—piled; left their sleek oxen dun;
 Left helpful wife, smooth babe, and clambering boy,
 Nor stopped to snatch one desultory joy.

 They left the long unstrung festoons half—stripped,
 The tall deep crates half—filled, the vats unpressed,
 In the first trough their hands empurpled dipped,
 Doffed work—day gear, and called for gay red vest;
 Then, with brief, brave farewell, away they slipped,
 Eager as fledglings from forsaken nest,
 And not one hand was raised to bid them stay,
 One tear let fall to clog them on their way.

  And Godfrid, Gilbert, Miriam, like the rest,
 Ever on foot, now journeying with the crowd,
 Now solitary skirting Samnian crest,
 Trackless, by many a dried—up torrent ploughed,
 On toward the Roman frontier panting pressed,
 Nor halted till they saw Alatri proud
 Look down on Collepardo, and descried
 Soft Liris winding round rough Sora`s side.

 But to the sword`s goal nearer as they drew,
 Omens of slackening purpose met their feet.
 Men `gan to ask each other what they knew.
 Had not the Royal drum been heard to beat?
 And were not those the Royal trumpets, blew?
 Yet could it be they did but sound retreat,
 Without one blow to break the bonds that wed
 Longwhile the living to the loathsome dead?

 Where was the Chief? Had he yet left his isle?
 Yes; foiling nimble lurchers of the law,
 He treads the mainland. Did a sceptic smile?
 Swift was the answer: here is one who saw…
 Ay! but how now? A dungeon`s well—clamped pile
 Coffins his rashness. He will burst it… Faugh!
 Back to Caprera, oath—bound, see him led,
 To gnaw his heart out on its barren bed!

 Godfrid the loud sardonic babble heard,
 Silent and gloomy. `Neath a trellised vine,
 As evening paled, chary of heed or word,
 He sate with Miriam. Flask of Volscian wine,
 And fare by hospitable hands preferred,
 Untasted stood. And when, at Miriam`s sign,
 The host withdrew, neither the silence broke,
 Till, Gilbert, suddenly entering, thuswise spoke:

 ```Tis as we feared. The King clanks back his blade
 Into the scabbard, and we stand alone.
 The royal troops, late marshalled to invade,
 Now guard, the frontiers of the priestly throne.
 Some they turn back by force, and some persuade;
 Some through their nets have broken, and are flown
 On to Mentana, resolute for Rome,
 Save the Chief fail them too, and call them home.``

 So saying, mute he stood, biding reply.
 But Miriam, who, the while he spoke, had gazed
 On him alone, now glanced with anxious eye
 To where sate Godfrid with his face upraised
 And propped upon his hand reflectingly;
 Over whose aspect suddenly there blazed
 The light of hot resolve, and, starting up,
 He seized the flask and drained a brimming cup.

  And as he laid it down, ``Too late,`` he cried,
 ``To turn back now! See! I will go with you.
 In vain we would discern; the Fates decide,
 And fool us to the task they`d have us do.
 So will I not be wanting at your side,
 Though deep I pray we shall not live to rue
 The madness of this hour. I cannot stem
 The waves I loosed not. I must ride with them:

 ``Though be it to dismay. But, Gilbert, this,
 This bear in mind, if I should fall, you stay:
 Though destiny now shapes my steps amiss,
 And I am by its current swept away,
 I drew the sword, only to bridge the abyss
 Which severs Rome from Italy; and say,
 If chance some voice of my last deed inquires,
 He ne`er assailed the altar of his sires.

 ``Enough,—alas! too much,—of my poor name;
 But there be those whom I, in death, would spare.
 Now, go with Miriam where the tongue of fame
 Reports our camp: I will towards Rome repair,
 And learn if chains have made her courage tame,
 Or if, not too disheartened still to dare,
 She finds her feet, and through her prison walls
 Answers the voice of Liberty that calls.

 ``Now farewell, Miriam! Gilbert be your guide
 Till I unto you both my steps retrace.``
 Whereat she rose, and going to his side,
 Soft laid against his beard her tender face,
 And murmured: ``For your journey Heaven provide!``
 Then he to her gave brotherly embrace,
 And, grasping Gilbert`s hand, as brave men do,
 Went, and down vine—slopes vanished from their view.

 But when the morrow`s dawn broke wild and red,
 Afoot once more, Gilbert and Miriam clomb
 Many a hillside, crossed many a torrent`s bed,
 Tracking through shaggy wood, past tumbling foam,
 That faithful band who, by one instinct led,
 Swarmed at the Sabine heights that look towards Rome;
 There where Nomentum still keeps, half consoled,
 Its Latin name and Bacchic fame of old.

 And these, if few, yet steadfast, o`er the rim
 Which severed still the freedman from the slave,
 Had crept or burst, and in embattled trim,
 Five thousand breasts, wooed glory or the grave.
 Purged of the waifs that on the surface swim
 Of noisy venture`s swift but shallow wave,
 Shrunk was their volume now, calm, gathered, deep,
 Even as the cataract`s, ere adown it leap.

  But on the mountainous ledge that dips towards Rome,
 They still hung pausing; for the Chief yet lagged.
 Cursed be the knaves that to his far—off home
 Had yet again his limbs reluctant dragged!
 Fools! would they coop the wind or curb the foam?
 Soon flashed the news upon their spirits fagged,
 That he unhelped had slipped the net once more,
 And wind and wave were wafting him to shore.

 Yes! steering tiny shallop, all alone,
 From rock to rock `mid perilous shoals, then tost
 On tumbling billows by the mistral blown,
 Till space `twixt sea and sky seemed wellnigh lost,
 Long ere the snarer guessed their bird was flown,
 He gripped Sardinia`s coast, its mountains crossed,
 And thence by leal hands led and fair gales fanned,
 Near Leghorn`s beach leaped once again to land.

 Then swift to arms and flashing ranks they flew,
 Shoulder to shoulder, heart by brave heart, ranged,
 Quick with whose every beat He nearer drew.
 Yes! `twas the Chief, from venture unestranged,
 As when his grasp the Bourbon hydra slew
 At tough Marsala, and a kingdom changed.
 Upon his brow were threatening thunders piled,
 But round his mouth love`s playful lightnings smiled.

 ``My children!`` when their jubilant welcome waned,
 With resonant clear voice he said, ``I am here.
 The French Jove`s minions thought to hold me chained,
 Lest I spread fire through this cimmerian sphere.
 Oh! how his eagle rent me, as I strained
 To rid me of my rock`s engyving gear!
 But herculean destiny, which foils
 Olympian counsels, came and cut my toils.

 ``And lo! I stand among you yet once more,
 Sons of my heart and scions of my soul!
 I see ye are still, all that ye were of yore,
 The valorous stuff Alcmene`s self might foal.
 Behind, lies shame in ambush,—peril before.
 Which do ye choose? Speak! whither is our goal?``
 He paused; and like a thunderclap, the breath
 Of their charged breasts roared loud, ``To Rome or Death!``

 ```Tis well. Look there!`` And as he spake they turned,
 Following his finger with immediate eyes.
 ``There, there is the vent for which your lives have burned,
 Your goal or grave, your sepulchre or prize.
Source
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