Classic Poem

Unchanged , serene, the Roman sky
Watches where Shelley's ashes lie;
About his grave slow ivy creeps,
On stone and wall and cypress sleeps
The silentness of four score years;
Yet, somewhere, Shelley's spirit hears,
Indignant, sorrowful, elate,
The story of the Narva Gate;
And, somewhere, Shelley's eyes look forth
On that white city in the North,
Beholding how the snow lies red
With blood of her most holy dead.

Tumultuous heart, yet wise as age
To read the far, sublime presage!
Though snow, new fallen, fold away
That piteous blood of yesterday;
Though a mad people, blind, betrayed,
Wreak blood with blood, thou, unafraid,
Must see no less a lovelier earth
Slowly from chaos brought to birth.
These many years the joyous sea
Encircles reborn Italy,
But thy clear message flashes still,
Kindling men's hearts to deathless will,
Lighting men's holier thought and speech,
Yet impotent alway to teach
One lesson to crowned bigotry.

O prophet, prophet! dost thou see
How " Northern Anarchs " cringe and hide
To-day, like peasants terrified,
Under the patient, scornful sun,
Bourbon by Romanoff outdone?
I think thou hast no eyes for these,
So transient are earth's tyrannies;
Only the stricken hope divine
Reaches that high abode of thine;
And thou art glad among thy peers
To see men offer blood and tears,
Exile and life, in sacrifice,
Even as of old.
Thy southern skies
Know the keen call of battling truth;
Poet, in thine immortal youth,
Come back to us one hour and sing
The grief and glory of this thing!