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diff --git a/8127-h/8127-h.htm b/8127-h/8127-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..7c96307 --- /dev/null +++ b/8127-h/8127-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,2323 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="iso-8859-1"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <title> + Songs of Two Nations, by Algernon Charles Swinburne + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal; + margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; + text-align: right;} + .side { float: right; font-size: 75%; width: 25%; padding-left: 0.8em; + border-left: dashed thin; margin-left: 0.8em; text-align: left; + text-indent: 0; font-weight: bold; font-style: italic; + font-weight: bold; color: black; background: #eeeeee; border: solid 1px;} + pre {font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: 100%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> + + +<pre> + +Project Gutenberg's Songs Of Two Nations, by Algernon Charles Swinburne + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Songs Of Two Nations + +Author: Algernon Charles Swinburne + + +Release Date: May, 2005 [EBook #8127] +This file was first posted on June 16, 2003 +Last Updated: May 14, 2013 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SONGS OF TWO NATIONS *** + + + + +Text file produced by Mark Sherwood, Marc D'Hooghe and Delphine Lettau + +HTML file produced by David Widger + + + +</pre> + + <div style="height: 8em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h1> + SONGS OF TWO NATIONS + </h1> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <h2> + By Algernon Charles Swinburne + </h2> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + <b>CONTENTS</b> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> DIRAE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> A SONG OF ITALY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> ODE ON THE PROCLAMATION OF THE FRENCH REPUBLIC + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> DIRAE </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + DIRAE + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I saw the double-featured statue stand + Of Memnon or of Janus, half with night + Veiled, and fast bound with iron; half with light + Crowned, holding all men's future in his hand. + + And all the old westward face of time grown grey + Was writ with cursing and inscribed for death; + But on the face that met the mornings breath + Fear died of hope as darkness dies of day. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A SONG OF ITALY + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Inscribed + + With All Devotion and Reverence + + To: + + JOSEPH MAZZINI + + 1867 +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Upon a windy night of stars that fell + At the wind's spoken spell, + Swept with sharp strokes of agonizing light + From the clear gulf of night, + Between the fixed and fallen glories one + Against my vision shone, + More fair and fearful and divine than they + That measure night and day, + And worthier worship; and within mine eyes + The formless folded skies + Took shape and were unfolded like as flowers. + And I beheld the hours + As maidens, and the days as labouring men, + And the soft nights again + As wearied women to their own souls wed, + And ages as the dead. + And over these living, and them that died, + From one to the other side + A lordlier light than comes of earth or air + Made the world's future fair. + A woman like to love in face, but not + A thing of transient lot— + And like to hope, but having hold on truth— + And like to joy or youth, + Save that upon the rock her feet were set— + And like what men forget, + Faith, innocence, high thought, laborious peace— + And yet like none of these, + Being not as these are mortal, but with eyes + That sounded the deep skies + And clove like wings or arrows their clear way + Through night and dawn and day— + So fair a presence over star and sun + Stood, making these as one. + For in the shadow of her shape were all + Darkened and held in thrall, + So mightier rose she past them; and I felt + Whose form, whose likeness knelt + With covered hair and face and clasped her knees; + And knew the first of these + Was Freedom, and the second Italy. + And what sad words said she + For mine own grief I knew not, nor had heart + Therewith to bear my part + And set my songs to sorrow; nor to hear + How tear by sacred tear + Fell from her eyes as flowers or notes that fall + In some slain feaster's hall + Where in mid music and melodious breath + Men singing have seen death. + So fair, so lost, so sweet she knelt; or so + In our lost eyes below + Seemed to us sorrowing; and her speech being said, + Fell, as one who falls dead. + And for a little she too wept, who stood + Above the dust and blood + And thrones and troubles of the world; then spake, + As who bids dead men wake. + "Because the years were heavy on thy head; + Because dead things are dead; + Because thy chosen on hill-side, city and plain + Are shed as drops of rain; + Because all earth was black, all heaven was blind, + And we cast out of mind; + Because men wept, saying <i>Freedom</i>, knowing of thee, + Child, that thou wast not free; + Because wherever blood was not shame was + Where thy pure foot did pass; + Because on Promethean rocks distent + Thee fouler eagles rent; + Because a serpent stains with slime and foam + This that is not thy Rome; + Child of my womb, whose limbs were made in me, + Have I forgotten thee? + In all thy dreams through all these years on wing, + Hast thou dreamed such a thing? + The mortal mother-bird outsoars her nest, + The child outgrows the breast; + But suns as stars shall fall from heaven and cease, + Ere we twain be as these; + Yea, utmost skies forget their utmost sun, + Ere we twain be not one. + My lesser jewels sewn on skirt and hem, + I have no heed of them + Obscured and flawed by sloth or craft or power; + But thou, that wast my flower, + The blossom bound between my brows and worn + In sight of even and morn + From the last ember of the flameless west + To the dawn's baring breast— + I were not Freedom if thou wert not free, + Nor thou wert Italy. + O mystic rose ingrained with blood, impearled + With tears of all the world! + The torpor of their blind brute-ridden trance + Kills England and chills France; + And Spain sobs hard through strangling blood; and snows + Hide the huge eastern woes. + But thou, twin-born with morning, nursed of noon, + And blessed of star and moon! + What shall avail to assail thee any more, + From sacred shore to shore? + Have Time and Love not knelt down at thy feet, + Thy sore, thy soiled, thy sweet, + Fresh from the flints and mire of murderous ways + And dust of travelling days? + Hath Time not kissed them, Love not washed them fair, + And wiped with tears and hair? + Though God forget thee, I will not forget; + Though heaven and earth be set + Against thee, O unconquerable child, + Abused, abased, reviled, + Lift thou not less from no funereal bed + Thine undishonoured head; + Love thou not less, by lips of thine once prest, + This my now barren breast; + Seek thou not less, being well assured thereof, + O child, my latest love. + For now the barren bosom shall bear fruit, + Songs leap from lips long mute, + And with my milk the mouths of nations fed + Again be glad and red + That were worn white with hunger and sorrow and thirst; + And thou, most fair and first, + Thou whose warm hands and sweet live lips I feel + Upon me for a seal, + Thou whose least looks, whose smiles and little sighs, + Whose passionate pure eyes, + Whose dear fair limbs that neither bonds could bruise + Nor hate of men misuse, + Whose flower-like breath and bosom, O my child, + O mine and undefiled, + Fill with such tears as burn like bitter wine + These mother's eyes of mine, + Thrill with huge passions and primeval pains + The fullness of my veins, + O sweetest head seen higher than any stands, + I touch thee with mine hands, + I lay my lips upon thee, O thou most sweet, + To lift thee on thy feet + And with the fire of mine to fill thine eyes; + I say unto thee, Arise." + + § + She ceased, and heaven was full of flame and sound, + And earth's old limbs unbound + Shone and waxed warm with fiery dew and seed + Shed through her at this her need: + And highest in heaven, a mother and full of grace, + With no more covered face, + With no more lifted hands and bended knees, + Rose, as from sacred seas + Love, when old time was full of plenteous springs, + That fairest-born of things, + The land that holds the rest in tender thrall + For love's sake in them all, + That binds with words and holds with eyes and hands + All hearts in all men's lands. + So died the dream whence rose the live desire + That here takes form and fire, + A spirit from the splendid grave of sleep + Risen, that ye should not weep, + Should not weep more nor ever, O ye that hear + And ever have held her dear, + Seeing now indeed she weeps not who wept sore, + And sleeps not any more. + Hearken ye towards her, O people, exalt your eyes; + Is this a thing that dies? + + § + Italia! by the passion of the pain + That bent and rent thy chain; + Italia! by the breaking of the bands, + The shaking of the lands; + Beloved, O men's mother, O men's queen, + Arise, appear, be seen! + Arise, array thyself in manifold + Queen's raiment of wrought gold; + With girdles of green freedom, and with red + Roses, and white snow shed + Above the flush and frondage of the hills + That all thy deep dawn fills + And all thy clear night veils and warms with wings + Spread till the morning sings; + The rose of resurrection, and the bright + Breast lavish of the light, + The lady lily like the snowy sky + Ere the stars wholly die; + As red as blood, and whiter than a wave, + Flowers grown as from thy grave, + From the green fruitful grass in Maytime hot, + Thy grave, where thou art not. + Gather the grass and weave, in sacred sign + Of the ancient earth divine, + The holy heart of things, the seed of birth, + The mystical warm earth. + O thou her flower of flowers, with treble braid + Be thy sweet head arrayed, + In witness of her mighty motherhood + Who bore thee and found thee good, + Her fairest-born of children, on whose head + Her green and white and red + Are hope and light and life, inviolate + Of any latter fate. + Fly, O our flag, through deep Italian air, + Above the flags that were, + The dusty shreds of shameful battle-flags + Trampled and rent in rags, + As withering woods in autumn's bitterest breath + Yellow, and black as death; + Black as crushed worms that sicken in the sense, + And yellow as pestilence. + Fly, green as summer and red as dawn and white + As the live heart of light, + The blind bright womb of colour unborn, that brings + Forth all fair forms of things, + As freedom all fair forms of nations dyed + In divers-coloured pride. + Fly fleet as wind on every wind that blows + Between her seas and snows, + From Alpine white, from Tuscan green, and where + Vesuvius reddens air. + Fly! and let all men see it, and all kings wail, + And priests wax faint and pale, + And the cold hordes that moan in misty places + And the funereal races + And the sick serfs of lands that wait and wane + See thee and hate thee in vain. + In the clear laughter of all winds and waves, + In the blown grass of graves, + In the long sound of fluctuant boughs of trees, + In the broad breath of seas, + Bid the sound of thy flying folds be heard; + And as a spoken word + Full of that fair god and that merciless + Who rends the Pythoness, + So be the sound and so the fire that saith + She feels her ancient breath + And the old blood move in her immortal veins. + + § + Strange travail and strong pains, + Our mother, hast thou borne these many years + While thy pure blood and tears + Mixed with the Tyrrhene and the Adrian sea; + Light things were said of thee, + As of one buried deep among the dead; + Yea, she hath been, they said, + She was when time was younger, and is not; + The very cerecloths rot + That flutter in the dusty wind of death, + Not moving with her breath; + Far seasons and forgotten years enfold + Her dead corpse old and cold + With many windy winters and pale springs: + She is none of this world's things. + Though her dead head like a live garland wear + The golden-growing hair + That flows over her breast down to her feet, + Dead queens, whose life was sweet + In sight of all men living, have been found + So cold, so clad, so crowned, + With all things faded and with one thing fair, + Their old immortal hair, + When flesh and bone turned dust at touch of day: + And she is dead as they. + So men said sadly, mocking; so the slave, + Whose life was his soul's grave; + So, pale or red with change of fast and feast, + The sanguine-sandalled priest; + So the Austrian, when his fortune came to flood, + And the warm wave was blood; + With wings that widened and with beak that smote, + So shrieked through either throat + From the hot horror of its northern nest + That double-headed pest; + So, triple-crowned with fear and fraud and shame, + He of whom treason came, + The herdsman of the Gadarean swine; + So all his ravening kine, + Made fat with poisonous pasture; so not we, + Mother, beholding thee. + Make answer, O the crown of all our slain, + Ye that were one, being twain, + Twain brethren, twin-born to the second birth, + Chosen out of all our earth + To be the prophesying stars that say + How hard is night on day, + Stars in serene and sudden heaven rerisen + Before the sun break prison + And ere the moon be wasted; fair first flowers + In that red wreath of ours + Woven with the lives of all whose lives were shed + To crown their mother's head + With leaves of civic cypress and thick yew, + Till the olive bind it too, + Olive and laurel and all loftier leaves + That victory wears or weaves + At her fair feet for her beloved brow; + Hear, for she too hears now, + O Pisacane, from Calabrian sands; + O all heroic hands + Close on the sword-hilt, hands of all her dead; + O many a holy head, + Bowed for her sake even to her reddening dust; + O chosen, O pure and just, + Who counted for a small thing life's estate, + And died, and made it great; + Ye whose names mix with all her memories; ye + Who rather chose to see + Death, than our more intolerable things; + Thou whose name withers kings, + Agesilao; thou too, O chiefliest thou, + The slayer of splendid brow, + Laid where the lying lips of fear deride + The foiled tyrannicide, + Foiled, fallen, slain, scorned, and happy; being in fame, + Felice, like thy name, + Not like thy fortune; father of the fight, + Having in hand our light. + Ah, happy! for that sudden-swerving hand + Flung light on all thy land, + Yea, lit blind France with compulsory ray, + Driven down a righteous way; + Ah, happiest! for from thee the wars began, + From thee the fresh springs ran; + From thee the lady land that queens the earth + Gat as she gave new birth. + O sweet mute mouths, O all fair dead of ours, + Fair in her eyes as flowers, + Fair without feature, vocal without voice, + Strong without strength, rejoice! + Hear it with ears that hear not, and on eyes + That see not let it rise, + Rise as a sundawn; be it as dew that drips + On dumb and dusty lips; + Eyes have ye not, and see it; neither ears, + And there is none but hears. + This is the same for whom ye bled and wept; + She was not dead, but slept. + This is that very Italy which was + And is and shall not pass. + + § + But thou, though all were not well done, O chief, + Must thou take shame or grief? + Because one man is not as thou or ten, + Must thou take shame for men? + Because the supreme sunrise is not yet, + Is the young dew not wet? + Wilt thou not yet abide a little while, + Soul without fear or guile, + Mazzini,—O our prophet, O our priest, + A little while at least? + A little hour of doubt and of control, + Sustain thy sacred soul; + Withhold thine heart, our father, but an hour; + Is it not here, the flower, + Is it not blown and fragrant from the root, + And shall not be the fruit? + Thy children, even thy people thou hast made, + Thine, with thy words arrayed, + Clothed with thy thoughts and girt with thy desires, + Yearn up toward thee as fires. + Art thou not father, O father, of all these? + From thine own Genoese + To where of nights the lower extreme lagune + Feels its Venetian moon, + Nor suckling's mouth nor mother's breast set free + But hath that grace through thee. + The milk of life on death's unnatural brink + Thou gavest them to drink, + The natural milk of freedom; and again + They drank, and they were men. + The wine and honey of freedom and of faith + They drank, and cast off death. + Bear with them now; thou art holier: yet endure, + Till they as thou be pure. + Their swords at least that stemmed half Austria's tide + Bade all its bulk divide; + Else, though fate bade them for a breath's space fall, + She had not fallen at all. + Not by their hands they made time's promise true; + Not by their hands, but through. + Nor on Custoza ran their blood to waste, + Nor fell their fame defaced + Whom stormiest Adria with tumultuous tides + Whirls undersea and hides. + Not his, who from the sudden-settling deck + Looked over death and wreck + To where the mother's bosom shone, who smiled + As he, so dying, her child; + For he smiled surely, dying, to mix his death + With her memorial breath; + Smiled, being most sure of her, that in no wise, + Die whoso will, she dies: + And she smiled surely, fair and far above, + Wept not, but smiled for love. + Thou too, O splendour of the sudden sword + That drove the crews abhorred + From Naples and the siren-footed strand, + Flash from thy master's hand, + Shine from the middle summer of the seas + To the old Aeolides, + Outshine their fiery fumes of burning night, + Sword, with thy midday light; + Flame as a beacon from the Tyrrhene foam + To the rent heart of Rome, + From the island of her lover and thy lord, + Her saviour and her sword. + In the fierce year of failure and of fame, + Art thou not yet the same + That wast as lightning swifter than all wings + In the blind face of kings? + When priests took counsel to devise despair, + And princes to forswear, + She clasped thee, O her sword and flag-bearer + And staff and shield to her, + O Garibaldi; need was hers and grief, + Of thee and of the chief, + And of another girt in arms to stand + As good of hope and hand, + As high of soul and happy, albeit indeed + The heart should burn and bleed, + So but the spirit shake not nor the breast + Swerve, but abide its rest. + As theirs did and as thine, though ruin clomb + The highest wall of Rome, + Though treason stained and spilt her lustral water, + And slaves led slaves to slaughter, + And priests, praying and slaying, watched them pass + From a strange France, alas, + That was not freedom; yet when these were past + Thy sword and thou stood fast, + Till new men seeing thee where Sicilian waves + Hear now no sound of slaves, + And where thy sacred blood is fragrant still + Upon the Bitter Hill, + Seeing by that blood one country saved and stained, + Less loved thee crowned than chained, + And less now only than the chief: for he, + Father of Italy, + Upbore in holy hands the babe new-born + Through loss and sorrow and scorn, + Of no man led, of many men reviled; + Till lo, the new-born child + Gone from between his hands, and in its place, + Lo, the fair mother's face. + Blessed is he of all men, being in one + As father to her and son, + Blessed of all men living, that he found + Her weak limbs bared and bound, + And in his arms and in his bosom bore, + And as a garment wore + Her weight of want, and as a royal dress + Put on her weariness. + As in faith's hoariest histories men read, + The strong man bore at need + Through roaring rapids when all heaven was wild + The likeness of a child + That still waxed greater and heavier as he trod, + And altered, and was God. + Praise him, O winds that move the molten air, + O light of days that were, + And light of days that shall be; land and sea, + And heaven and Italy: + Praise him, O storm and summer, shore and wave, + O skies and every grave; + O weeping hopes, O memories beyond tears, + O many and murmuring years, + O sounds far off in time and visions far, + O sorrow with thy star, + And joy with all thy beacons; ye that mourn, + And ye whose light is born; + O fallen faces, and O souls arisen, + Praise him from tomb and prison, + Praise him from heaven and sunlight; and ye floods, + And windy waves of woods; + Ye valleys and wild vineyards, ye lit lakes + And happier hillside brakes, + Untrampled by the accursed feet that trod + Fields golden from their god, + Fields of their god forsaken, whereof none + Sees his face in the sun, + Hears his voice from the floweriest wildernesses; + And, barren of his tresses, + Ye bays unplucked and laurels unentwined, + That no men break or bind, + And myrtles long forgetful of the sword, + And olives unadored, + Wisdom and love, white hands that save and slay, + Praise him; and ye as they, + Praise him, O gracious might of dews and rains + That feed the purple plains, + O sacred sunbeams bright as bare steel drawn, + O cloud and fire and dawn; + Red hills of flame, white Alps, green Apennines, + Banners of blowing pines, + Standards of stormy snows, flags of light leaves, + Three wherewith Freedom weaves + One ensign that once woven and once unfurled + Makes day of all a world, + Makes blind their eyes who knew not, and outbraves + The waste of iron waves; + Ye fields of yellow fullness, ye fresh fountains, + And mists of many mountains; + Ye moons and seasons, and ye days and nights; + Ye starry-headed heights, + And gorges melting sunward from the snow, + And all strong streams that flow, + Tender as tears, and fair as faith, and pure + As hearts made sad and sure + At once by many sufferings and one love; + O mystic deathless dove + Held to the heart of earth and in her hands + Cherished, O lily of lands, + White rose of time, dear dream of praises past— + For such as these thou wast, + That art as eagles setting to the sun, + As fawns that leap and run, + As a sword carven with keen floral gold, + Sword for an armed god's hold, + Flower for a crowned god's forehead—O our land, + Reach forth thine holiest hand, + O mother of many sons and memories, + Stretch out thine hand to his + That raised and gave thee life to run and leap + When thou wast full of sleep, + That touched and stung thee with young blood and breath + When thou wast hard on death. + Praise him, O all her cities and her crowns, + Her towers and thrones of towns; + O noblest Brescia, scarred from foot to head + And breast-deep in thy dead, + Praise him from all the glories of thy graves + That yellow Mela laves + With gentle and golden water, whose fair flood + Ran wider with thy blood: + Praise him, O born of that heroic breast, + O nursed thereat and blest, + Verona, fairer than thy mother fair, + But not more brave to bear: + Praise him, O Milan, whose imperial tread + Bruised once the German head; + Whose might, by northern swords left desolate, + Set foot on fear and fate: + Praise him, O long mute mouth of melodies, + Mantua, with louder keys, + With mightier chords of music even than rolled + From the large harps of old, + When thy sweet singer of golden throat and tongue, + Praising his tyrant, sung; + Though now thou sing not as of other days, + Learn late a better praise. + Not with the sick sweet lips of slaves that sing, + Praise thou no priest or king, + No brow-bound laurel of discoloured leaf, + But him, the crownless chief. + Praise him, O star of sun-forgotten times, + Among their creeds and crimes + That wast a fire of witness in the night, + Padua, the wise men's light: + Praise him, O sacred Venice, and the sea + That now exults through thee, + Full of the mighty morning and the sun, + Free of things dead and done; + Praise him from all the years of thy great grief, + That shook thee like a leaf + With winds and snows of torment, rain that fell + Red as the rains of hell, + Storms of black thunder and of yellow flame, + And all ill things but shame; + Praise him with all thy holy heart and strength; + Through thy walls' breadth and length + Praise him with all thy people, that their voice + Bid the strong soul rejoice, + The fair clear supreme spirit beyond stain, + Pure as the depth of pain, + High as the head of suffering, and secure + As all things that endure. + More than thy blind lord of an hundred years + Whose name our memory hears, + Home-bound from harbours of the Byzantine + Made tributary of thine, + Praise him who gave no gifts from oversea, + But gave thyself to thee. + O mother Genoa, through all years that run, + More than that other son, + Who first beyond the seals of sunset prest + Even to the unfooted west, + Whose back-blown flag scared from, their sheltering seas + The unknown Atlantides, + And as flame climbs through cloud and vapour clomb + Through streams of storm and foam, + Till half in sight they saw land heave and swim— + More than this man praise him. + One found a world new-born from virgin sea; + And one found Italy. + O heavenliest Florence, from the mouths of flowers + Fed by melodious hours, + From each sweet mouth that kisses light and air, + Thou whom thy fate made fair, + As a bound vine or any flowering tree, + Praise him who made thee free. + For no grape-gatherers trampling out the wine + Tread thee, the fairest vine; + For no man binds thee, no man bruises, none + Does with thee as these have done. + From where spring hears loud through her long lit vales + Triumphant nightingales, + In many a fold of fiery foliage hidden, + Withheld as things forbidden, + But clamorous with innumerable delight + In May's red, green, and white, + In the far-floated standard of the spring, + That bids men also sing, + Our flower of flags, our witness that we are free, + Our lamp for land and sea; + From where Majano feels through corn and vine + Spring move and melt as wine, + And Fiesole's embracing arms enclose + The immeasurable rose; + From hill-sides plumed with pine, and heights wind-worn + That feel the refluent morn, + Or where the moon's face warm and passionate + Burns, and men's hearts grow great, + And the swoln eyelids labour with sweet tears, + And in their burning ears + Sound throbs like flame, and in their eyes new light + Kindles the trembling night; + From faint illumined fields and starry valleys + Wherefrom the hill-wind sallies, + From Vallombrosa, from Valdarno raise + One Tuscan tune of praise. + O lordly city of the field of death, + Praise him with equal breath, + From sleeping streets and gardens, and the stream + That threads them as a dream + Threads without light the untravelled ways of sleep + With eyes that smile or weep; + From the sweet sombre beauty of wave and wall + That fades and does not fall; + From coloured domes and cloisters fair with fame, + Praise thou and thine his name. + Thou too, O little laurelled town of towers, + Clothed with the flame of flowers, + From windy ramparts girdled with young gold, + From thy sweet hillside fold + Of wallflowers and the acacia's belted bloom + And every blowing plume, + Halls that saw Dante speaking, chapels fair + As the outer hills and air, + Praise him who feeds the fire that Dante fed, + Our highest heroic head, + Whose eyes behold through floated cloud and flame + The maiden face of fame + Like April's in Valdelsa; fair as flowers, + And patient as the hours; + Sad with slow sense of time, and bright with faith + That levels life and death; + The final fame, that with a foot sublime + Treads down reluctant time; + The fame that waits and watches and is wise, + A virgin with chaste eyes, + A goddess who takes hands with great men's grief; + Praise her, and him, our chief. + Praise him, O Siena, and thou her deep green spring, + O Fonte Branda, sing: + Shout from the red clefts of thy fiery crags, + Shake out thy flying flags + In the long wind that streams from hill to hill; + Bid thy full music fill + The desolate red waste of sunset air + And fields the old time saw fair, + But now the hours ring void through ruined lands, + Wild work of mortal hands; + Yet through thy dead Maremma let his name + Take flight and pass in flame, + And the red ruin of disastrous hours + Shall quicken into flowers. + Praise him, O fiery child of sun and sea, + Naples, who bade thee be; + For till he sent the swords that scourge and save, + Thou wast not, but thy grave. + But more than all these praise him and give thanks, + Thou, from thy Tiber's banks, + From all thine hills and from thy supreme dome, + Praise him, O risen Rome. + Let all thy children cities at thy knee + Lift up their voice with thee, + Saying 'for thy love's sake and our perished grief + We laud thee, O our chief;' + Saying 'for thine hand and help when hope was dead + We thank thee, O our head;' + Saying 'for thy voice and face within our sight + We bless thee, O our light; + For waters cleansing us from days defiled + We praise thee, O our child.' + + § + So with an hundred cities' mouths in one + Praising thy supreme son, + Son of thy sorrow, O mother, O maid and mother, + Our queen, who serve none other, + Our lady of pity and mercy, and full of grace, + Turn otherwhere thy face, + Turn for a little and look what things are these + Now fallen before thy knees; + Turn upon them thine eyes who hated thee, + Behold what things they be, + Italia: these are stubble that were steel, + Dust, or a turning wheel; + As leaves, as snow, as sand, that were so strong; + And howl, for all their song, + And wail, for all their wisdom; they that were + So great, they are all stript bare, + They are all made empty of beauty, and all abhorred; + They are shivered and their sword; + They are slain who slew, they are heartless who were wise; + Yea, turn on these thine eyes, + O thou, soliciting with soul sublime + The obscure soul of time, + Thou, with the wounds thy holy body bears + From broken swords of theirs, + Thou, with the sweet swoln eyelids that have bled + Tears for thy thousands dead, + And upon these, whose swords drank up like dew + The sons of thine they slew, + These, whose each gun blasted with murdering mouth + Live flowers of thy fair south, + These, whose least evil told in alien ears + Turned men's whole blood to tears, + These, whose least sin remembered for pure shame + Turned all those tears to flame, + Even upon these, when breaks the extreme blow + And all the world cries woe, + When heaven reluctant rains long-suffering fire + On these and their desire, + When his wind shakes them and his waters whelm + Who rent thy robe and realm, + When they that poured thy dear blood forth as wine + Pour forth their own for thine, + On these, on these have mercy: not in hate, + But full of sacred fate, + Strong from the shrine and splendid from the god, + Smite, with no second rod. + Because they spared not, do thou rather spare: + Be not one thing they were. + Let not one tongue of theirs who hate thee say + That thou wast even as they. + Because their hands were bloody, be thine white; + Show light where they shed night: + Because they are foul, be thou the rather pure; + Because they are feeble, endure; + Because they had no pity, have thou pity. + And thou, O supreme city, + O priestless Rome that shall be, take in trust + Their names, their deeds, their dust, + Who held life less than thou wert; be the least + To thee indeed a priest, + Priest and burnt-offering and blood-sacrifice + Given without prayer or price, + A holier immolation than men wist, + A costlier eucharist, + A sacrament more saving; bend thine head + Above these many dead + Once, and salute with thine eternal eyes + Their lowest head that lies. + Speak from thy lips of immemorial speech + If but one word for each. + Kiss but one kiss on each thy dead son's mouth + Fallen dumb or north or south. + And laying but once thine hand on brow and breast, + Bless them, through whom thou art blest. + And saying in ears of these thy dead, "Well done," + Shall they not hear "O son"? + And bowing thy face to theirs made pale for thee, + Shall the shut eyes not see? + Yea, through the hollow-hearted world of death, + As light, as blood, as breath, + Shall there not flash and flow the fiery sense, + The pulse of prescience? + Shall not these know as in times overpast + Thee loftiest to the last? + For times and wars shall change, kingdoms and creeds, + And dreams of men, and deeds; + Earth shall grow grey with all her golden things, + Pale peoples and hoar kings; + But though her thrones and towers of nations fall, + Death has no part in all; + In the air, nor in the imperishable sea, + Nor heaven, nor truth, nor thee. + Yea, let all sceptre-stricken nations lie, + But live thou though they die; + Let their flags fade as flowers that storm can mar, + But thine be like a star; + Let England's, if it float not for men free, + Fall, and forget the sea; + Let France's, if it shadow a hateful head, + Drop as a leaf drops dead; + Thine let what storm soever smite the rest + Smite as it seems him best; + Thine let the wind that can, by sea or land, + Wrest from thy banner-hand. + Die they in whom dies freedom, die and cease, + Though the world weep for these; + Live thou and love and lift when these lie dead + The green and white and red. + + § + O our Republic that shalt bind in bands + The kingdomless far lands + And link the chainless ages; thou that wast + With England ere she past + Among the faded nations, and shalt be + Again, when sea to sea + Calls through the wind and light of morning time, + And throneless clime to clime + Makes antiphonal answer; thou that art + Where one man's perfect heart + Burns, one man's brow is brightened for thy sake, + Thine, strong to make or break; + O fair Republic hallowing with stretched hands + The limitless free lands, + When all men's heads for love, not fear, bow down + To thy sole royal crown, + As thou to freedom; when man's life smells sweet, + And at thy bright swift feet + A bloodless and a bondless world is laid; + Then, when thy men are made, + Let these indeed as we in dreams behold + One chosen of all thy fold, + One of all fair things fairest, one exalt + Above all fear or fault, + One unforgetful of unhappier men + And us who loved her then; + With eyes that outlook suns and dream on graves; + With voice like quiring waves; + With heart the holier for their memories' sake + Who slept that she might wake; + With breast the sweeter for that sweet blood lost, + And all the milkless cost; + Lady of earth, whose large equality + Bends but to her and thee; + Equal with heaven, and infinite of years, + And splendid from quenched tears; + Strong with old strength of great things fallen and fled, + Diviner for her dead; + Chaste of all stains and perfect from all scars, + Above all storms and stars, + All winds that blow through time, all waves that foam, + Our Capitolian Rome. + + 1867. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ODE ON THE PROCLAMATION OF THE FRENCH REPUBLIC + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + To: VICTOR HUGO + + (Greek: ailenon ailenon eipe, to d' eu nikato) +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + STROPHE 1 + + With songs and crying and sounds of acclamations, + Lo, the flame risen, the fire that falls in showers! + Hark; for the word is out among the nations: + Look; for the light is up upon the hours: + O fears, O shames, O many tribulations, + Yours were all yesterdays, but this day ours. + Strong were your bonds linked fast with lamentations, + With groans and tears built into walls and towers; + Strong were your works and wonders of high stations, + Your forts blood-based, and rampires of your powers: + Lo now the last of divers desolations, + The hand of time, that gathers hosts like flowers; + Time, that fills up and pours out generations; + Time, at whose breath confounded empire cowers. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + STROPHE 2 + + What are these moving in the dawn's red gloom? + What is she waited on by dread and doom, + Ill ministers of morning, bondmen born of night? + If that head veiled and bowed be morning's head, + If she come walking between doom and dread, + Who shall rise up with song and dance before her sight? + + Are not the night's dead heaped about her feet? + Is not death swollen, and slaughter full of meat? + What, is their feast a bride-feast, where men sing and dance? + A bitter, a bitter bride-song and a shrill + Should the house raise that such bride-followers fill, + Wherein defeat weds ruin, and takes for bride-bed France. + + For nineteen years deep shame and sore desire + Fed from men's hearts with hungering fangs of fire, + And hope fell sick with famine for the food of change. + Now is change come, but bringing funeral urns; + Now is day nigh, but the dawn blinds and burns; + Now time long dumb hath language, but the tongue is strange. + + We that have seen her not our whole lives long, + We to whose ears her dirge was cradle-song, + The dirge men sang who laid in earth her living head, + Is it by such light that we live to see + Rise, with rent hair and raiment, Liberty? + Does her grave open only to restore her dead? + + Ah, was it this we looked for, looked and prayed, + This hour that treads upon the prayers we made, + This ravening hour that breaks down good and ill alike? + Ah, was it thus we thought to see her and hear, + The one love indivisible and dear? + Is it her head that hands which strike down wrong must strike? +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + STROPHE 3 + + Where is hope, and promise where, in all these things, + Shocks of strength with strength, and jar of hurtling kings? + Who of all men, who will show us any good? + Shall these lightnings of blind battles give men light? + Where is freedom? who will bring us in her sight, + That have hardly seen her footprint where she stood? +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + STROPHE 4 + + Who is this that rises red with wounds and splendid, + All her breast and brow made beautiful with scars, + Burning bare as naked daylight, undefended, + In her hands for spoils her splintered prison-bars, + In her eyes the light and fire of long pain ended, + In her lips a song as of the morning stars? +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + STROPHE 5 + + O torn out of thy trance, + O deathless, O my France, + O many-wounded mother, O redeemed to reign! + O rarely sweet and bitter + The bright brief tears that glitter + On thine unclosing eyelids, proud of their own pain; + The beautiful brief tears + That wash the stains of years + White as the names immortal of thy chosen and slain. + O loved so much so long, + O smitten with such wrong, + O purged at last and perfect without spot or stain, + Light of the light of man, + Reborn republican, + At last, O first Republic, hailed in heaven again! + Out of the obscene eclipse + Rerisen, with burning lips + To witness for us if we looked for thee in vain. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + STROPHE 6 + + Thou wast the light whereby men saw + Light, thou the trumpet of the law + Proclaiming manhood to mankind; + And what if all these years were blind + And shameful? Hath the sun a flaw + Because one hour hath power to draw + Mist round him wreathed as links to bind? + And what if now keen anguish drains + The very wellspring of thy veins + And very spirit of thy breath? + The life outlives them and disdains; + The sense which makes the soul remains, + And blood of thought which travaileth + To bring forth hope with procreant pains. + O thou that satest bound in chains + Between thine hills and pleasant plains + As whom his own soul vanquisheth, + Held in the bonds of his own thought, + Whence very death can take off nought, + Nor sleep, with bitterer dreams than death, + What though thy thousands at thy knees + Lie thick as grave-worms feed on these, + Though thy green fields and joyous places + Are populous with blood-blackening faces + And wan limbs eaten by the sun? + Better an end of all men's races, + Better the world's whole work were done, + And life wiped out of all our traces, + And there were left to time not one, + Than such as these that fill thy graves + Should sow in slaves the seed of slaves. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ANTISTROPHE 1 + + Not of thy sons, O mother many-wounded, + Not of thy sons are slaves ingrafted and grown. + Was it not thine, the fire whence light rebounded + From kingdom on rekindling kingdom thrown, + From hearts confirmed on tyrannies confounded, + From earth on heaven, fire mightier than his own? + Not thine the breath wherewith time's clarion sounded, + And all the terror in the trumpet blown? + The voice whereat the thunders stood astounded + As at a new sound of a God unknown? + And all the seas and shores within them bounded + Shook at the strange speech of thy lips alone, + And all the hills of heaven, the storm-surrounded, + Trembled, and all the night sent forth a groan. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ANTISTROPHE 2 + + What hast thou done that such an hour should be + More than another clothed with blood to thee? + Thou hast seen many a bloodred hour before this one. + What art thou that thy lovers should misdoubt? + What is this hour that it should cast hope out? + If hope turn back and fall from thee, what hast thou done? + + Thou hast done ill against thine own soul; yea, + Thine own soul hast thou slain and burnt away, + Dissolving it with poison into foul thin fume. + Thine own life and creation of thy fate + Thou hast set thine hand to unmake and discreate; + And now thy slain soul rises between dread and doom. + + Yea, this is she that comes between them led; + That veiled head is thine own soul's buried head, + The head that was as morning's in the whole world's sight. + These wounds are deadly on thee, but deadlier + Those wounds the ravenous poison left on her; + How shall her weak hands hold thy weak hands up to fight? + + Ah, but her fiery eyes, her eyes are these + That, gazing, make thee shiver to the knees + And the blood leap within thee, and the strong joy rise. + What, doth her sight yet make thine heart to dance? + O France, O freedom, O the soul of France, + Are ye then quickened, gazing in each other's eyes? + + Ah, and her words, the words wherewith she sought thee + Sorrowing, and bare in hand the robe she wrought thee + To wear when soul and body were again made one, + And fairest among women, and a bride, + Sweet-voiced to sing the bridegroom to her side, + The spirit of man, the bridegroom brighter than the sun! +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ANTISTROPHE 3 + + Who shall help me? who shall take me by the hand? + Who shall teach mine eyes to see, my feet to stand, + Now my foes have stripped and wounded me by night? + Who shall heal me? who shall come to take my part? + Who shall set me as a seal upon his heart, + As a seal upon his arm made bare for fight? +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ANTISTROPHE 4 + + If thou know not, O thou fairest among women, + If thou see not where the signs of him abide, + Lift thine eyes up to the light that stars grow dim in, + To the morning whence he comes to take thy side. + None but he can bear the light that love wraps him in, + When he comes on earth to take himself a bride. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ANTISTROPHE 5 + + Light of light, name of names, + Whose shadows are live flames, + The soul that moves the wings of worlds upon their way; + Life, spirit, blood and breath + In time and change and death + Substant through strength and weakness, ardour and decay; + Lord of the lives of lands, + Spirit of man, whose hands + Weave the web through wherein man's centuries fall as prey; + That art within our will + Power to make, save, and kill, + Knowledge and choice, to take extremities and weigh; + In the soul's hand to smite + Strength, in the soul's eye sight; + That to the soul art even as is the soul to clay; + Now to this people be + Love; come, to set them free, + With feet that tread the night, with eyes that sound the day. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ANTISTROPHE 6 + + Thou that wast on their fathers dead + As effluent God effused and shed, + Heaven to be handled, hope made flesh, + Break for them now time's iron mesh; + Give them thyself for hand and head, + Thy breath for life, thy love for bread, + Thy thought for spirit to refresh, + Thy bitterness to pierce and sting, + Thy sweetness for a healing spring. + Be to them knowledge, strength, life, light, + Thou to whose feet the centuries cling + And in the wide warmth of thy wing + Seek room and rest as birds by night, + O thou the kingless people's king, + To whom the lips of silence sing, + Called by thy name of thanksgiving + Freedom, and by thy name of might + Justice, and by thy secret name + Love; the same need is on the same + Men, be the same God in their sight! + From this their hour of bloody tears + Their praise goes up into thine ears, + Their bruised lips clothe thy name with praises, + The song of thee their crushed voice raises, + Their grief seeks joy for psalms to borrow, + With tired feet seeks her through time's mazes + Where each day's blood leaves pale the morrow, + And from their eyes in thine there gazes + A spirit other far than sorrow— + A soul triumphal, white and whole + And single, that salutes thy soul. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + EPODE + + All the lights of the sweet heaven that sing together; + All the years of the green earth that bare man free; + Rays and lightnings of the fierce or tender weather, + Heights and lowlands, wastes and headlands of the sea, + Dawns and sunsets, hours that hold the world in tether, + Be our witnesses and seals of things to be. + Lo the mother, the Republic universal, + Hands that hold time fast, hands feeding men with might, + Lips that sing the song of the earth, that make rehearsal + Of all seasons, and the sway of day with night, + Eyes that see as from a mountain the dispersal, + The huge ruin of things evil, and the flight; + Large exulting limbs, and bosom godlike moulded + Where the man-child hangs, and womb wherein he lay; + Very life that could it die would leave the soul dead, + Face whereat all fears and forces flee away, + Breath that moves the world as winds a flower-bell folded, + Feet that trampling the gross darkness beat out day. + In the hour of pain and pity, + Sore spent, a wounded city, + Her foster-child seeks to her, stately where she stands; + In the utter hour of woes, + Wind-shaken, blind with blows, + Paris lays hold upon her, grasps her with child's hands; + Face kindles face with fire, + Hearts take and give desire, + Strange joy breaks red as tempest on tormented lands. + Day to day, man to man, + Plights love republican, + And faith and memory burn with passion toward each other; + Hope, with fresh heavens to track, + Looks for a breath's space back, + Where the divine past years reach hands to this their brother; + And souls of men whose death + Was light to her and breath + Send word of love yet living to the living mother. + They call her, and she hears; + O France, thy marvellous years, + The years of the strong travail, the triumphant time, + Days terrible with love, + Red-shod with flames thereof, + Call to this hour that breaks in pieces crown and crime; + The hour with feet to spurn, + Hands to crush, fires to burn + The state whereto no latter foot of man shall climb. + Yea, come what grief, now may + By ruinous night or day, + One grief there cannot, one the first and last grief, shame. + Come force to break thee and bow + Down, shame can come not now, + Nor, though hands wound thee, tongues make mockery of thy name: + Come swords and scar thy brow, + No brand there burns it now, + No spot but of thy blood marks thy white-fronted fame. + Now, though the mad blind morrow + With shafts of iron sorrow + Should split thine heart, and whelm thine head with sanguine waves; + Though all that draw thy breath + Bled from all veins to death, + And thy dead body were the grave of all their graves, + And thine unchilded womb + For all their tombs a tomb, + At least within thee as on thee room were none for slaves. + This power thou hast, to be, + Come death or come not, free; + That in all tongues of time's this praise be chanted of thee, + That in thy wild worst hour + This power put in thee power, + And moved as hope around and hung as heaven above thee, + And while earth sat in sadness + In only thee put gladness, + Put strength and love, to make all hearts of ages love thee. + That in death's face thy chant + Arose up jubilant, + And thy great heart with thy great peril grew more great: + And sweet for bitter tears + Put out the fires of fears, + And love made lovely for thee loveless hell and hate; + And they that house with error, + Cold shame and burning terror, + Fled from truth risen and thee made mightier than thy fate. + This shall all years remember; + For this thing shall September + Have only name of honour, only sign of white. + And this year's fearful name, + France, in thine house of fame + Above all names of all thy triumphs shalt thou write, + When, seeing thy freedom stand + Even at despair's right hand, + The cry thou gavest at heart was only of delight. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + DIRAE + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Guai a voi, anime prave. + Dante. + + Soyez maudits, d'abord d'être ce que vous êtes, + Et puis soyez maudits d'obséder les poëtes! + Victor Hugo. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I + + A DEAD KING + + <i>Ferdinand II entered Malebolge May 22nd, 1859.</i> +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Go down to hell. This end is good to see; + The breath is lightened and the sense at ease + Because thou art not; sense nor breath there is + In what thy body was, whose soul shall be + Chief nerve of hell's pained heart eternally. + Thou art abolished from the midst of these + That are what thou wast: Pius from his knees + Blows off the dust that flecked them, bowed for thee. + Yea, now the long-tongued slack-lipped litanies + Fail, and the priest has no more prayer to sell— + Now the last Jesuit found about thee is + The beast that made thy fouler flesh his cell— + Time lays his finger on thee, saying, "Cease; + Here is no room for thee; go down to hell." +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + II + + A YEAR AFTER +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + If blood throbs yet in this that was thy face, + O thou whose soul was full of devil's faith, + If in thy flesh the worm's bite slackeneth + In some acute red pause of iron days, + Arise now, gird thee, get thee on thy ways, + Breathe off the worm that crawls and fears not breath; + King, it may be thou shalt prevail on death; + King, it may be thy soul shall find out grace. + O spirit that hast eased the place of Cain, + Weep now and howl, yea weep now sore; for this + That was thy kingdom hath spat out its king. + Wilt thou plead now with God? behold again, + Thy prayer for thy son's sake is turned to a hiss, + Thy mouth to a snake's whose slime outlives the sting, +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + III + + PETER'S PENCE FROM PERUGIA +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Iscariot, thou grey-grown beast of blood, + Stand forth to plead; stand, while red drops run here + And there down fingers shaken with foul fear, + Down the sick shivering chin that stooped and sued, + Bowed to the bosom, for a little food + At Herod's hand, who smites thee cheek and ear. + Cry out, Iscariot; haply he will hear; + Cry, till he turn again to do thee good. + Gather thy gold up, Judas, all thy gold, + And buy thee death; no Christ is here to sell, + But the dead earth of poor men bought and sold, + While year heaps year above thee safe in hell, + To grime thy grey dishonourable head + With dusty shame, when thou art damned and dead. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + IV + + PAPAL ALLOCUTION + + "Popule mi, quid tibi feci?" +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + What hast thou done? Hark, till thine ears wax hot, + Judas; for these and these things hast thou done. + Thou hast made earth faint, and sickened the sweet sun, + With fume of blood that reeks from limbs that rot; + Thou hast washed thine hands and mouth, saying, "Am I not + Clean?" and thy lips were bloody, and there was none + To speak for man against thee, no, not one; + This hast thou done to us, Iscariot. + Therefore, though thou be deaf and heaven be dumb, + A cry shall be from under to proclaim + In the ears of all who shed men's blood or sell + Pius the Ninth, Judas the Second, come + Where Boniface out of the filth and flame + Barks for his advent in the clefts of hell. (i) + + (i) Dante, "Inferno," xix. 53. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + V +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + THE BURDEN OF AUSTRIA + + 1866 +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + O daughter of pride, wasted with misery, + With all the glory that thy shame put on + Stripped off thy shame, O daughter of Babylon, + Yea, whoso be it, yea, happy shall he be + That as thou hast served us hath rewarded thee. + Blessed, who throweth against war's boundary stone + Thy warrior brood, and breaketh bone by bone + Misrule thy son, thy daughter Tyranny. + That landmark shalt thou not remove for shame, + But sitting down there in a widow's weed + Wail; for what fruit is now of thy red fame? + Have thy sons too and daughters learnt indeed + What thing it is to weep, what thing to bleed? + Is it not thou that now art but a name? (ii) + + (ii) "A geographical expression."—Metternich of Italy. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + VI + + LOCUSTA +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Come close and see her and hearken. This is she. + Stop the ways fast against the stench that nips + Your nostril as it nears her. Lo, the lips + That between prayer and prayer find time to be + Poisonous, the hands holding a cup and key, + Key of deep hell, cup whence blood reeks and drips; + The loose lewd limbs, the reeling hingeless hips, + The scurf that is not skin but leprosy. + This haggard harlot grey of face and green + With the old hand's cunning mixes her new priest + The cup she mixed her Nero, stirred and spiced. + She lisps of Mary and Jesus Nazarene + With a tongue tuned, and head that bends to the east, + Praying. There are who say she is bride of Christ. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + VII + + CELAENO +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The blind king hides his weeping eyeless head, + Sick with the helpless hate and shame and awe, + Till food have choked the glutted hell-bird's craw + And the foul cropful creature lie as dead + And soil itself with sleep and too much bread: + So the man's life serves under the beast's law, + And things whose spirit lives in mouth and maw + Share shrieking the soul's board and soil her bed, + Till man's blind spirit, their sick slave, resign + Its kingdom to the priests whose souls are swine, + And the scourged serf lie reddening from their rod, + Discrowned, disrobed, dismantled, with lost eyes + Seeking where lurks in what conjectural skies + That triple-headed hound of hell their God. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + VIII + + A CHOICE +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Faith is the spirit that makes man's body and blood + Sacred, to crown when life and death have ceased + His heavenward head for high fame's holy feast; + But as one swordstroke swift as wizard's rod + Made Caesar carrion and made Brutus God, + Faith false or true, born patriot or born priest, + Smites into semblance or of man or beast + The soul that feeds on clean or unclean food. + Lo here the faith that lives on its own light, + Visible music; and lo there, the foul + Shape without shape, the harpy throat and howl. + Sword of the spirit of man! arise and smite, + And sheer through throat and claw and maw and tongue + Kill the beast faith that lives on its own dung. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + IX + + THE AUGURS +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Lay the corpse out on the altar; bid the elect + Slaves clear the ways of service spiritual, + Sweep clean the stalled soul's serviceable stall, + Ere the chief priest's dismantling hands detect + The ulcerous flesh of faith all scaled and specked + Beneath the bandages that hid it all, + And with sharp edgetools oecumenical + The leprous carcases of creeds dissect. + As on the night ere Brutus grew divine + The sick-souled augurs found their ox or swine + Heartless; so now too by their after art + In the same Rome, at an uncleaner shrine, + Limb from rank limb, and putrid part from part, + They carve the corpse—a beast without a heart. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + X + + A COUNSEL +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + O strong Republic of the nobler years + Whose white feet shine beside time's fairer flood + That shall flow on the clearer for our blood + Now shed, and the less brackish for our tears; + When time and truth have put out hopes and fears + With certitude, and love has burst the bud, + If these whose powers then down the wind shall scud + Still live to feel thee smite their eyes and ears, + When thy foot's tread hath crushed their crowns and creeds, + Care thou not then to crush the beast that bleeds, + The snake whose belly cleaveth to the sod, + Nor set thine heel on men as on their deeds; + But let the worm Napoleon crawl untrod, + Nor grant Mastai the gallows of his God. + + 1869. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + XI + + THE MODERATES +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>Virtutem videant intabescantque relicta</i>. + + She stood before her traitors bound and bare, + Clothed with her wounds and with her naked shame + As with a weed of fiery tears and flame, + Their mother-land, their common weal and care, + And they turned from her and denied, and sware + They did not know this woman nor her name. + And they took truce with tyrants and grew tame, + And gathered up cast crowns and creeds to wear, + And rags and shards regilded. Then she took + In her bruised hands their broken pledge, and eyed + These men so late so loud upon her side + With one inevitable and tearless look, + That they might see her face whom they forsook; + And they beheld what they had left, and died. + + February 1870. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + XII + + INTERCESSION + + <i>Ave Caesar Imperator, moriturum te saluto.</i> + + 1 + + O Death, a little more, and then the worm; + A little longer, O Death, a little yet, + Before the grave gape and the grave-worm fret; + Before the sanguine-spotted hand infirm + Be rottenness, and that foul brain, the germ + Of all ill things and thoughts, be stopped and set; + A little while, O Death, ere he forget, + A small space more of life, a little term; + A little longer ere he and thou be met, + Ere in that hand that fed thee to thy mind + The poison-cup of life be overset; + A little respite of disastrous breath, + Till the soul lift up her lost eyes, and find + Nor God nor help nor hope, but thee, O Death. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 2 + + Shall a man die before his dying day, + Death? and for him though the utter day be nigh, + Not yet, not yet we give him leave to die; + We give him grace not yet that men should say + He is dead, wiped out, perished and past away. + Till the last bitterness of life go by, + Thou shalt not slay him; till those last dregs run dry, + O thou last lord of life! thou shalt not slay. + Let the lips live a little while and lie, + The hand a little, and falter, and fail of strength, + And the soul shudder and sicken at the sky; + Yea, let him live, though God nor man would let + Save for the curse' sake; then at bitter length, + Lord, will we yield him to thee, but not yet. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 3 + + Hath he not deeds to do and days to see + Yet ere the day that is to see him dead? + Beats there no brain yet in the poisonous head, + Throbs there no treason? if no such thing there be, + If no such thought, surely this is not he. + Look to the hands then; are the hands not red? + What are the shadows about this man's bed? + Death, was not this the cupbearer to thee? + Nay, let him live then, till in this life's stead + Even he shall pray for that thou hast to give; + Till seeing his hopes and not his memories fled + Even he shall cry upon thee a bitter cry, + That life is worse than death; then let him live, + Till death seem worse than life; then let him die. + + 4 + + O watcher at the guardless gate of kings, + O doorkeeper that serving at their feast + Hast in thine hand their doomsday drink, and seest + With eyeless sight the soul of unseen things; + Thou in whose ear the dumb time coming sings, + Death, priest and king that makest of king and priest + A name, a dream, a less thing than the least, + Hover awhile above him with closed wings, + Till the coiled soul, an evil snake-shaped beast, + Eat its base bodily lair of flesh away; + If haply, or ever its cursed life have ceased, + Or ever thy cold hands cover his head + From sight of France and freedom and broad day, + He may see these and wither and be dead. + + Paris: September 1869. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + XIII + + THE SAVIOUR OF SOCIETY + + 1 +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + O son of man, but of what man who knows? + That broughtest healing on thy leathern wings + To priests, and under them didst gather kings, + And madest friends to thee of all man's foes; + Before thine incarnation, the tale goes, + Thy virgin mother, pure of sensual stings, + Communed by night with angels of chaste things, + And, full of grace, untimely felt the throes + Of motherhood upon her, and believed + The obscure annunciation made when late + A raven-feathered raven-throated dove + Croaked salutation to the mother of love + Whose misconception was immaculate, + And when her time was come she misconceived. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 2 + + Thine incarnation was upon this wise, + Saviour; and out of east and west were led + To thy foul cradle by thy planet red + Shepherds of souls that feed their sheep with lies + Till the utter soul die as the body dies, + And the wise men that ask but to be fed + Though the hot shambles be their board and bed + And sleep on any dunghill shut their eyes, + So they lie warm and fatten in the mire: + And the high priest enthroned yet in thy name, + Judas, baptised thee with men's blood for hire; + And now thou hangest nailed to thine own shame + In sight of all time, but while heaven has flame + Shalt find no resurrection from hell-fire. + + December 1869. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + XIV + + MENTANA: SECOND ANNIVERSARY + + Est-ce qu'il n'est pas temps que la foudre se prouve, + Cieux profonds, en broyant ce chien, fils de la louve? + La Légende des Siècles:—Ratbert. + + 1 +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + By the dead body of Hope, the spotless lamb + Thou threwest into the high priest's slaughtering-room, + And by the child Despair born red therefrom + As, thank the secret sire picked out to cram + With spurious spawn thy misconceiving dam, + Thou, like a worm from a town's common tomb, + Didst creep from forth the kennel of her womb, + Born to break down with catapult and ram + Man's builded towers of promise, and with breath + And tongue to track and hunt his hopes to death: + O, by that sweet dead body abused and slain, + And by that child mismothered,—dog, by all + Thy curses thou hast cursed mankind withal, + With what curse shall man curse thee back again? +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 2 + + By the brute soul that made man's soul its food; + By time grown poisonous with it; by the hate + And horror of all souls not miscreate; + By the hour of power that evil hath on good; + And by the incognizable fatherhood + Which made a whorish womb the shameful gate + That opening let out loose to fawn on fate + A hound half-blooded ravening for man's blood; + (What prayer but this for thee should any say, + Thou dog of hell, but this that Shakespeare said?) + By night deflowered and desecrated day, + That fall as one curse on one cursed head, + "Cancel his bond of life, dear God, I pray, + That I may live to say, The dog is dead!" + + 1869. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + XV + + MENTANA: THIRD ANNIVERSARY + + 1 +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Such prayers last year were put up for thy sake; + What shall this year do that hath lived to see + The piteous and unpitied end of thee? + What moan, what cry, what clamour shall it make, + Seeing as a reed breaks all thine empire break, + And all thy great strength as a rotten tree, + Whose branches made broad night from sea to sea, + And the world shuddered when a leaf would shake? + From the unknown deep wherein those prayers were heard, + From the dark height of time there sounds a word, + Crying, Comfort; though death ride on this red hour, + Hope waits with eyes that make the morning dim, + Till liberty, reclothed with love and power, + Shall pass and know not if she tread on him. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 2 + + The hour for which men hungered and had thirst, + And dying were loth to die before it came, + Is it indeed upon thee? and the lame + Late foot of vengeance on thy trace accurst + For years insepulchred and crimes inhearsed, + For days marked red or black with blood or shame, + Hath it outrun thee to tread out thy name? + This scourge, this hour, is this indeed the worst? + O clothed and crowned with curses, canst thou tell? + Have thy dead whispered to thee what they see + Whose eyes are open in the dark on thee + Ere spotted soul and body take farewell + Or what of life beyond the worm's may be + Satiate the immitigable hours in hell? + + 1870. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + XVI + + THE DESCENT INTO HELL + + January 9th, 1873 + + 1 + + O Night and death, to whom we grudged him then, + When in man's sight he stood not yet undone, + Your king, your priest, your saviour, and your son, + We grudge not now, who know that not again + Shall this curse come upon the sins of men, + Nor this face look upon the living sun + That shall behold not so abhorred an one + In all the days whereof his eye takes ken. + The bond is cancelled, and the prayer is heard + That seemed so long but weak and wasted breath; + Take him, for he is yours, O night and death. + Hell yawns on him whose life was as a word + Uttered by death in hate of heaven and light, + A curse now dumb upon the lips of night. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 2 + + What shapes are these and shadows without end + That fill the night full as a storm of rain + With myriads of dead men and women slain, + Old with young, child with mother, friend with friend, + That on the deep mid wintering air impend, + Pale yet with mortal wrath and human pain, + Who died that this man dead now too might reign, + Toward whom their hands point and their faces bend? + The ruining flood would redden earth and air + If for each soul whose guiltless blood was shed + There fell but one drop on this one man's head + Whose soul to-night stands bodiless and bare, + For whom our hearts give thanks who put up prayer, + That we have lived to say, The dog is dead. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + XVII + + APOLOGIA +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + If wrath embitter the sweet mouth of song, + And make the sunlight fire before those eyes + That would drink draughts of peace from the unsoiled skies, + The wrongdoing is not ours, but ours the wrong, + Who hear too loud on earth and see too long + The grief that dies not with the groan that dies, + Till the strong bitterness of pity cries + Within us, that our anger should be strong. + For chill is known by heat and heat by chill, + And the desire that hope makes love to still + By the fear flying beside it or above, + A falcon fledged to follow a fledgeling dove, + And by the fume and flame of hate of ill + The exuberant light and burning bloom of love. +</pre> + <div style="height: 6em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's Songs Of Two Nations, by Algernon Charles Swinburne + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SONGS OF TWO NATIONS *** + +***** This file should be named 8127-h.htm or 8127-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/8/1/2/8127/ + + +Text file produced by Mark Sherwood, Marc D'Hooghe and Delphine Lettau + +HTML file produced by David Widger + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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