Classic Poem

Cleaving the quiet water a short rock-rib
Juts forth; behind it copses of laurel-trees,
Thick-foliaged, murmuring softly,
Scatter their scents on the wind of evening.

Before it, full-faced, perfect, most beautiful,
Shineth the moon, and near her the lovely star
Of Venus, with quick throbs of splendour,
Glows from the innermost depths of heaven.

From such a peaceful nook might a man push forth
In some frail bark with one he loved, secretly
Enjoying the bliss of sweet converse,
Lulled by the zephyrs, his mistress by him.

Gazing the while intent on the star of Love.
Italia, Italia, mistress of centuries,
Of prophets and martyrs the mistress,
Widow renowned for thy matchless sorrow,

From here pushed forth thy faithful one, seeking thee
Over the ocean. Wrapping the puncio
About his lion-neck, his shoulders
Girt with the sword that at Rome he wielded.

Stood Garibaldi. Shadow-like, silently,
By tens, by fives, mysterious companies
Emerged from the gloom, and then vanished,
Destined to work thy revenge — the Thousand,

Sweeping like pirates swift on their prey; as yet
Unknown to thee, O Italy, sailed they forth,
For thee begging death from the heavens,
Death from the ocean, yea, death from brethren.

Proudly afar shone Genova's citadel,
Rearing her stately marble-built palaces,
Starlike with clustered lights, and distant
Music that died on the moonlit waters.

O House, where Genius, mighty, prophetical,
Bade Pisacane steer on his fateful path
To Naples, O dwelling whence Byron
Thirsted for valiant Missolonghi!

Those marble heights were crowned with Olympian
Glory upon that eve of the fifth of May.
Lo, great as the sacrifice offered,
Great was the victory, O ye Muses.

Pure star of Venus, star of our Italy,
Star of our Caesar, fair was thy smile that night:
Sure never a Springtime more holy
Did'st thou illumine for hearts Italian

Since long ago Aeneas' ship silently,
Big with the future, breasted the Tiber stream,
And Pallas was slain near the hills, which
Witnessed the towers of Rome arising.