The Poetical Works of Elizabeth Barrett Browning Volume IV Part 12

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."

VII.

Now, shall we say Our Italy lives indeed?

And if it were not for the beat and bray Of drum and trump of martial men, Should we feel the underground heave and strain, Where heroes left their dust as a seed Sure to emerge one day?

And if it were not for the rhythmic march Of France and Piedmont's double hosts, Should we hear the ghosts Thrill through ruined aisle and arch, Throb along the frescoed wall, Whisper an oath by that divine They left in picture, book, and stone, That Italy is not dead at all?

Ay, if it were not for the tears in our eyes, These tears of a sudden pa.s.sionate joy, Should we see her arise From the place where the wicked are overthrown, Italy, Italy--loosed at length From the tyrant's thrall, Pale and calm in her strength?

Pale as the silver cross of Savoy When the hand that bears the flag is brave, And not a breath is stirring, save What is blown Over the war-trump's lip of bra.s.s, Ere Garibaldi forces the pa.s.s!

VIII.

Ay, it is so, even so.

Ay, and it shall be so.

Each broken stone that long ago She flung behind her as she went In discouragement and bewilderment Through the cairns of Time, and missed her way Between to-day and yesterday, Up springs a living man.

And each man stands with his face in the light Of his own drawn sword, Ready to do what a hero can.

Wall to sap, or river to ford, Cannon to front, or foe to pursue, Still ready to do, and sworn to be true, As a man and a patriot can.

Piedmontese, Neapolitan, Lombard, Tuscan, Romagnole, Each man's body having a soul,-- Count how many they stand, All of them sons of the land, Every live man there Allied to a dead man below, And the deadest with blood to spare To quicken a living hand In case it should ever be slow.

Count how many they come To the beat of Piedmont's drum, With faces keener and grayer Than swords of the Austrian slayer, All set against the foe.

"Emperor Evermore."

IX.

Out of the dust where they ground them; Out of the holes where they dogged them; Out of the hulks where they wound them In iron, tortured and flogged them; Out of the streets where they chased them, Taxed them, and then bayonetted them; Out of the homes where they spied on them (Using their daughters and wives); Out of the church where they fretted them, Rotted their souls and debased them, Trained them to answer with knives, Then cursed them all at their prayers!-- Out of cold lands, not theirs, Where they exiled them, starved them, lied on them; Back they come like a wind, in vain Cramped up in the hills, that roars its road The stronger into the open plain, Or like a fire that burns the hotter And longer for the crust of cinder, Serving better the ends of the potter; Or like a restrained word of G.o.d, Fulfilling itself by what seems to hinder.

"Emperor Evermore."

X.

Shout for France and Savoy!

Shout for the helper and doer.

Shout for the good sword's ring, Shout for the thought still truer.

Shout for the spirits at large Who pa.s.sed for the dead this spring, Whose living glory is sure.

Shout for France and Savoy!

Shout for the council and charge!

Shout for the head of Cavour; And shout for the heart of a King That's great with a nation's joy!

Shout for France and Savoy!

XI.

Take up the child, Macmahon, though Thy hand be red From Magenta's dead, And riding on, in front of the troop, In the dust of the whirlwind of war Through the gate of the city of Milan, stoop And take up the child to thy saddle-bow, Nor fear the touch as soft as a flower of his smile as clear as a star!

Thou hast a right to the child, we say, Since the women are weeping for joy as they Who, by thy help and from this day, Shall be happy mothers indeed.

They are raining flowers from terrace and roof: Take up the flower in the child.

While the shout goes up of a nation freed And heroically self-reconciled, Till the snow on that peaked Alp aloof Starts, as feeling G.o.d's finger anew, And all those cold white marble fires Of mounting saints on the Duomo-spires Flicker against the Blue.

"Emperor Evermore."

XII.