VIII

O holy rights of nations! If I speak

      These bitter things against the jugglery

Of days that in your names proved blind and weak,

      It is that tears are bitter. When we see

The brown skulls grin at death in churchyards bleak,

      We do not cry, "This Yorick is too light,"—

For death grows deathlier with that mouth he makes.

      So with my mocking. Bitter things I write,

Because my soul is bitter for your sakes,

      O freedom! O my Florence!