XIX

Set down thy people's faults:—set down the want

      Of soul-conviction; set down aims dispersed,

And incoherent means, and valour scant

      Because of scanty faith, and schisms accursed

That wrench these brother-hearts from covenant

      With freedom and each other. Set down this

And this, and see to overcome it when

      The seasons bring the fruits thou wilt not miss

If wary. Let no cry of patriot men

      Distract thee from the stern analysis

Of masses who cry only: keep thy ken

      Clear as thy soul is virtuous. Heroes' blood

Splashed up against thy noble brow in Rome.—

      Let such not blind thee to the interlude

Which was not also holy, yet did come

      'Twixt sacramental actions:-brotherhood,

Despised even there,—and something of the doom

      Of Remus, in the trenches. Listen now—

Rossi died silent near where Cæsar died.

      He did not say, "My Brutus, is it thou?"

Instead, rose Italy and testified,

      "'Twas I, and I am Brutus,—I avow."

At which the whole world's laugh of scorn replied,

      "A poor maimed copy of Brutus!"

                                                                                          Too much like,

Indeed, to be so unlike. Too unskilled

      At Philippi and the honest battle-pike,

To be so skilful where a man is killed

      Near Pompey's statue, and the daggers strike

At unawares i' the throat. Was thus fulfilled

      An omen of great Michel Angelo,—

When Marcus Brutus he conceived complete,

      And strove to hurl him out by blow on blow

Upon the marble, at Art's thunderheat,

      Till haply some pre-shadow rising slow

Of what his Italy would fancy meet

      To be called Brutus, straight his plastic hand

Fell back before his prophet soul, and left

      A fragment... a maimed Brutus,—but more grand

Than this, so named of Rome, was!

                                                                                                      Let thy weft

      Be of one woof and warp, Mazzini!—stand

With no man of a spotless fame bereft—

      Not for Italia! Neither stand apart,

No, not for the republic!—from those pure

      Brave men who hold the level of thy heart

In patriot truth, as lover and as doer,

      Albeit they will not follow where thou art

As extreme theorist. Trust and distrust fewer;

      And so bind strong and keep unstained the cause

Which, at God's signal, war-trumps newly blown

      Shall yet annuntiate to the world's applause.