Volume IV Part 15 (2/2)

Down she stepped to a pallet where lay a face like a girl's, Young, and pathetic with dying,--a deep black hole in the curls.

XVI.

”Art thou from Tuscany, brother? and seest thou, dreaming in pain, Thy mother stand in the piazza, searching the List of the slain?”

XVII.

Kind as a mother herself, she touched his cheeks with her hands: ”Blessed is she who has borne thee, although she should weep as she stands.”

XVIII.

On she pa.s.sed to a Frenchman, his arm carried off by a ball: Kneeling,--”O more than my brother! how shall I thank thee for all?

XIX.

”Each of the heroes around us has fought for his land and line, But thou hast fought for a stranger, in hate of a wrong not thine.

XX.

”Happy are all free peoples, too strong to be dispossessed.

But blessed are those among nations who dare to be strong for the rest!”

XXI.

Ever she pa.s.sed on her way, and came to a couch where pined One with a face from Venetia, white with a hope out of mind.

XXII.

Long she stood and gazed, and twice she tried at the name, But two great crystal tears were all that faltered and came.

XXIII.

Only a tear for Venice?--she turned as in pa.s.sion and loss, And stooped to his forehead and kissed it, as if she were kissing the cross.

XXIV.

Faint with that strain of heart she moved on then to another, Stern and strong in his death. ”And dost thou suffer, my brother?”

XXV.

Holding his hands in hers:--”Out of the Piedmont lion Cometh the sweetness of freedom! sweetest to live or to die on.”

XXVI.

Holding his cold rough hands,--”Well, oh well have ye done In n.o.ble, n.o.ble Piedmont, who would not be n.o.ble alone.”

XXVII.

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