XIII

As Florence owes the sun. The sky above,

Its weight upon the mountains seemed to lay,

      And palpitate in glory, like a dove

Who has flown too fast, full-hearted. Take away

      The image! for the heart of man beat higher

That day in Florence, flooding all her streets

      And piazzas with a tumult and desire.

The people, with accumulated heats,

      And faces turned one way, as if one fire

Did draw and flush them, leaving their old beats,

      Went upward to the palace Pitti wall,

To thank their Grand-duke, who, not quite of course,

      Had graciously permitted, at their call,

The citizens to use their civic force

To guard their civic homes. So, one and all,

The Tuscan cities streamed up to the source

      Of this new good, at Florence; taking it

As good so far, presageful of more good,—

      The first torch of Italian freedom, lit

To toss in the next tiger's face who should

      Approach too near them in a cruel fit,—

The first pulse of an even flow of blood,

      To prove the level of Italian veins

Toward rights perceived and granted. How we gazed

      From Casa Guidi windows, while, in trains

Of orderly procession—banners raised,

      And intermittent bursts of martial strains

Which died upon the shout, as if amazed

      By gladness beyond music—they passed on!

The magistrates, with their insignia, passed;

      And all the people shouted in the sun,

And all the thousand windows which had cast

      A ripple of silks, in blue and scarlet, down,

As if the houses overflowed at last,

      Seemed to grow larger with fair heads and eyes.

The lawyers passed; and still arose the shout,

      And hands broke from the windows, to surprise

Those grave calm brows with bay-tree leaves thrown out.

      The priesthood passed: the friars, with worldly-wise

Keen, sidelong glances from their beards, about

      The street, to see who shouted! many a monk

Who takes a long rope in the waist, was there!

      Whereat the popular exultation drunk

With indrawn "vivas," the whole sunny air,

While through the murmuring windows rose and sunk

A cloud of kerchiefed hands! "the church makes fair

      Her welcome in the new Pope's name." Ensued

The black sign of the "martyrs!" name no name,

      But count the graves in silence. Next, were viewed

The artists; next, the trades; and after came

      The populace, with flag and rights as good;

And very loud the shout was for that same

      Motto, "Il popolo," Il Popolo,—

The word meant dukedom, empire, majesty,

      And kings in such an hour might read it so.

And next, with banners, each in his degree,

      Deputed representatives a-row,

Of every separate state of Tuscany:

      Siena's she-wolf, bristling on the fold

Of the first flag, preceded Pisa's hare;

      And Massa's lion floated calm in gold,

Pienza's following with his silver stare;

      Arezzo's steed pranced clear from bridle-hold,—

And well might shout our Florence, greeting there

      These, and more brethren! Last, the world had sent

The various children of her teeming flanks—

      Greeks, English, French—as to some parliament

Of lovers of her Italy, in ranks,

      Each bearing its land's symbols reverent;

At which the stones seemed breaking into thanks

      And rattling up to the sky, such sounds in proof

Arose! the very house-walls seemed to bend,

      The very windows, up from door to roof,

Flashed out a rapture of bright heads, to mend,

With passionate looks, the gesture's whirling off

A hurricane of leaves! Three hours did end

      While all these passed; and ever in the crowd,

Rude men, unconscious of the tears that kept

      Their beards moist, shouted; and some laughed aloud,

And none asked any why they laughed and wept:

      Friends kissed each other's cheeks, and foes long vowed

Did it more warmly; two-months' babies leapt

      Right upward in their mother's arms, whose black

Wide, glittering eyes looked elsewhere; lovers pressed

      Each before either, neither glancing back;

And peasant maidens, smoothly 'tired and tressed,

      Forgot to finger on their throats the slack

Great pearl-strings; while old blind men would not rest,

      But pattered with their staves and with their shoes

Still on the stones, and smiled as if they saw.

      O Heaven! I think that day had noble use

Among God's days. So near stood Right and Law,

      Both mutually forborne! Law would not bruise,

Nor Right deny; and each in reverent awe

      Honoured the other. What if, ne'ertheless,

The sun did, that day, leave upon the vines

      No charta, and the liberal Duke's excess

Did scarce exceed a Guelf's or Ghibelline's

      In the specific actual righteousness

Of what that day he granted; still the signs

Are good, and full of promise, we must say,

When multitudes thank kings for granting prayers,

      And kings concede their people's right to pray,

Both in the sunshine! Griefs are not despairs,

      So uttered; nor can royal claims dismay,

When men, from humble homes and ducal chairs,

      Hate wrong together. It was well to view

Those banners ruffled in a Grand-duke's face,

      Inscribed, "Live freedom, union, and all true

Brave patriots who are aided by God's grace!"

      Nor was it ill, when Leopoldo drew

His little children to the window-place

      He stood in at the Pitti, to suggest

They, too, should govern as the people willed.

      What a cry rose then! some, who saw the best,

Sware that his eyes filled up, and overfilled

      With good warm human tears, which unrepressed

Ran down. I like his face: the forehead's build

      Has no capacious genius, yet perhaps

Sufficient comprehension,—mild and sad,

      And careful nobly,—not with care that wraps

Self-loving hearts, to stifle and make mad,

      But careful with the care that shuns a lapse

Of faith and duty,—studious not to add

      A burden in the gathering of a gain.

And so, God save the Duke, I say with those

      Who that day shouted it, and while dukes reign,

May all wear, in the visible overflows

      Of spirit, such a look of careful pain!

Methinks God loves it better than repose.