IX

Do greatly in a universe that breaks

      And burns, must ever know before they do.

Courage and patience are but sacrifice;

      A sacrifice is offered for and to

Something conceived of. Each man pays a price

      For what himself counts precious, whether true

Or false the appreciation it implies.

      Here, was no knowledge, no conception, nought!

Desire was absent, that provides great deeds

      From out the greatness of prevenient thought;

And action, action, like a flame that needs

      A steady breath and fuel, being caught

Up, like a burning reed from other reeds,

      Flashed in the empty and uncertain air,

Then wavered, then went out. Behold, who blames

      A crooked course, when not a goal is there,

To round the fervid striving of the games?

      An ignorance of means may minister

To greatness, but an ignorance of aims

      Makes it impossible to be great at all.

So, with our Tuscans! Let none dare to say,

      Here virtue never can be national,

Here fortitude can never cut its way

      Between the Austrian muskets, out of thrall.

I tell you rather, that whoever may

      Discern true ends here, shall grow pure enough

To love them, brave enough to strive for them,

      And strong to reach them, though the roads be rough:

That having learnt—by no mere apophthegm—

      Not the mere draping of a graceful stuff

About a statue, broidered at the hem,—

      Not the mere trilling on an opera stage,

Of libertà' to bravos—(a fair word,

      Yet too allied to inarticulate rage

And breathless sobs, for singing, though the chord

      Were deeper than they struck it!)—but the gauge

Of civil wants sustained, and wrongs abhorred,—

      The serious, sacred meaning and full use

Of freedom for a nation,—then, indeed,

      Our Tuscans, underneath the bloody dews

Of a new morning, rising up agreed

      And bold, will want no Saxon souls or thews,

To sweep their piazzas clear of Austria's breed.