Volume IV Part 12 (1/2)

And poets who write of the events of that time shall not need to justify themselves in prefaces for ever so little jarring of the national sentiment imputable to their rhymes.

ROME: _February 1860_.

NAPOLEON III. IN ITALY.

I.

Emperor, Emperor!

From the centre to the sh.o.r.e, From the Seine back to the Rhine, Stood eight millions up and swore By their manhood's right divine So to elect and legislate, This man should renew the line Broken in a strain of fate And leagued kings at Waterloo, When the people's hands let go.

Emperor Evermore.

II.

With a universal shout They took the old regalia out From an open grave that day; From a grave that would not close, Where the first Napoleon lay Expectant, in repose, As still as Merlin, with his conquering face Turned up in its unquenchable appeal To men and heroes of the advancing race,-- Prepared to set the seal Of what has been on what shall be.

Emperor Evermore.

III.

The thinkers stood aside To let the nation act.

Some hated the new-const.i.tuted fact Of empire, as pride treading on their pride.

Some quailed, lest what was poisonous in the past Should graft itself in that Druidic bough On this green Now.

Some cursed, because at last The open heavens to which they had looked in vain For many a golden fall of marvellous rain Were closed in bra.s.s; and some Wept on because a gone thing could not come; And some were silent, doubting all things for That popular conviction,--evermore Emperor.

IV.

That day I did not hate Nor doubt, nor quail nor curse.

I, reverencing the people, did not bate My reverence of their deed and oracle, Nor vainly prate Of better and of worse Against the great conclusion of their will.

And yet, O voice and verse, Which G.o.d set in me to acclaim and sing Conviction, exaltation, aspiration, We gave no music to the patent thing, Nor spared a holy rhythm to throb and swim About the name of him Translated to the sphere of domination By democratic pa.s.sion!

I was not used, at least, Nor can be, now or then, To stroke the ermine beast On any kind of throne (Though builded by a nation for its own), And swell the surging choir for kings of men-- ”Emperor Evermore.”

V.

But now, Napoleon, now That, leaving far behind the purple throng Of vulgar monarchs, thou Tread'st higher in thy deed Than stair of throne can lead, To help in the hour of wrong The broken hearts of nations to be strong,-- Now, lifted as thou art To the level of pure song, We stand to meet thee on these Alpine snows!

And while the palpitating peaks break out Ecstatic from somnambular repose With answers to the presence and the shout, We, poets of the people, who take part With elemental justice, natural right, Join in our echoes also, nor refrain.

We meet thee, O Napoleon, at this height At last, and find thee great enough to praise.

Receive the poet's chrism, which smells beyond The priest's, and pa.s.s thy ways;-- An English poet warns thee to maintain G.o.d's word, not England's:--let His truth be true And all men liars! with His truth respond To all men's lie. Exalt the sword and smite On that long anvil of the Apennine Where Austria forged the Italian chain in view Of seven consenting nations, sparks of fine Admonitory light, Till men's eyes wink before convictions new.

Flash in G.o.d's justice to the world's amaze, Sublime Deliverer!--after many days Found worthy of the deed thou art come to do-- Emperor.

Evermore.

VI.

But Italy, my Italy, Can it last, this gleam?

Can she live and be strong, Or is it another dream Like the rest we have dreamed so long?

And shall it, must it be, That after the battle-cloud has broken She will die off again Like the rain, Or like a poet's song Sung of her, sad at the end Because her name is Italy,-- Die and count no friend?

Is it true,--may it be spoken,-- That she who has lain so still, With a wound in her breast, And a flower in her hand, And a grave-stone under her head, While every nation at will Beside her has dared to stand, And flout her with pity and scorn, Saying ”She is at rest, She is fair, she is dead, And, leaving room in her stead To Us who are later born, This is certainly best!”

Saying ”Alas, she is fair, Very fair, but dead,--give place, And so we have room for the race.”

--Can it be true, be true, That she lives anew?

That she rises up at the shout of her sons, At the trumpet of France, And lives anew?--is it true That she has not moved in a trance, As in Forty-eight?

When her eyes were troubled with blood Till she knew not friend from foe, Till her hand was caught in a strait Of her cerement and baffled so From doing the deed she would; And her weak foot stumbled across The grave of a king, And down she dropt at heavy loss, And we gloomily covered her face and said, ”We have dreamed the thing; She is not alive, but dead.”