G.o.d"s judgments, peradventure, will He bare To the roots of thunder, if we kneel and sue?
From Casa Guidi windows I looked forth, And saw ten thousand eyes of Florentines Flash back the triumph of the Lombard north,-- Saw fifty banners, freighted with the signs And exultations of the awakened earth, Float on above the mult.i.tude in lines, Straight to the Pitti. So, the vision went.
And so, between those populous rough hands Raised in the sun, Duke Leopold outleant, And took the patriot"s oath which henceforth stands Among the oaths of perjurers, eminent To catch the lightnings ripened for these lands.
Why swear at all, thou false Duke Leopold?
What need to swear? What need to boast thy blood Unspoilt of Austria, and thy heart unsold Away from Florence? It was understood G.o.d made thee not too vigorous or too bold; And men had patience with thy quiet mood, And women, pity, as they saw thee pace Their festive streets with premature grey hairs.
We turned the mild dejection of thy face To princely meanings, took thy wrinkling cares For ruffling hopes, and called thee weak, not base.
Nay, better light the torches for more prayers And smoke the pale Madonnas at the shrine, Being still "our poor Grand-duke, our good Grand-duke, Who cannot help the Austrian in his line,"-- Than write an oath upon a nation"s book For men to spit at with scorn"s blurring brine!
Who dares forgive what none can overlook?
For me, I do repent me in this dust Of towns and temples which makes Italy,-- I sigh amid the sighs which breathe a gust Of dying century to century Around us on the uneven crater-crust Of these old worlds,--I bow my soul and knee.
Absolve me, patriots, of my woman"s fault That ever I believed the man was true!
These sceptred strangers shun the common salt, And, therefore, when the general board"s in view And they stand up to carve for blind and halt, The wise suspect the viands which ensue.
I much repent that, in this time and place Where many corpse-lights of experience burn From Caesar"s and Lorenzo"s festering race, To enlighten groping reasoners, I could learn No better counsel for a simple case Than to put faith in princes, in my turn.
Had all the death-piles of the ancient years Flared up in vain before me? knew I not What stench arises from some purple gears?
And how the sceptres witness whence they got Their briar-wood, crackling through the atmosphere"s Foul smoke, by princely perjuries, kept hot?
Forgive me, ghosts of patriots,--Brutus, thou, Who trailest downhill into life again Thy blood-weighed cloak, to indict me with thy slow Reproachful eyes!--for being taught in vain That, while the illegitimate Caesars show Of meaner stature than the first full strain (Confessed incompetent to conquer Gaul), They swoon as feebly and cross Rubicons As rashly as any Julius of them all!
Forgive, that I forgot the mind which runs Through absolute races, too unsceptical!
I saw the man among his little sons, His lips were warm with kisses while he swore; And I, because I am a woman--I, Who felt my own child"s coming life before The prescience of my soul, and held faith high,-- I could not bear to think, whoever bore, That lips, so warmed, could shape so cold a lie.
From Casa Guidi windows I looked out, Again looked, and beheld a different sight.
The Duke had fled before the people"s shout "Long live the Duke!" A people, to speak right, Must speak as soft as courtiers, lest a doubt Should curdle brows of gracious sovereigns, white.
Moreover that same dangerous shouting meant Some grat.i.tude for future favours, which Were only promised, the Const.i.tuent Implied, the whole being subject to the hitch In "motu proprios," very incident To all these Czars, from Paul to Paulovitch.
Whereat the people rose up in the dust Of the ruler"s flying feet, and shouted still And loudly; only, this time, as was just, Not "Live the Duke," who had fled for good or ill, But "Live the People," who remained and must, The unrenounced and unrenounceable.
Long live the people! How they lived! and boiled And bubbled in the cauldron of the street: How the young bl.u.s.tered, nor the old recoiled, And what a thunderous stir of tongues and feet Trod flat the palpitating bells and foiled The joy-guns of their echo, shattering it!
How down they pulled the Duke"s arms everywhere!
How up they set new cafe-signs, to show Where patriots might sip ices in pure air-- (The fresh paint smelling somewhat)! To and fro How marched the civic guard, and stopped to stare When boys broke windows in a civic glow!
How rebel songs were sung to loyal tunes, And bishops cursed in ecclesiastic metres: How all the Circoli grew large as moons, And all the speakers, moonstruck,--thankful greeters Of prospects which struck poor the ducal boons, A mere free Press, and Chambers!--frank repeaters Of great Guerazzi"s praises--"There"s a man, The father of the land, who, truly great, Takes off that national disgrace and ban, The farthing tax upon our Florence-gate, And saves Italia as he only can!"
How all the n.o.bles fled, and would not wait, Because they were most n.o.ble,--which being so, How Liberals vowed to burn their palaces, Because free Tuscans were not free to go!
How grown men raged at Austria"s wickedness, And smoked,--while fifty striplings in a row Marched straight to Piedmont for the wrong"s redress!
You say we failed in duty, we who wore Black velvet like Italian democrats, Who slashed our sleeves like patriots, nor forswore The true republic in the form of hats?
We chased the archbishop from the Duomo door, We chalked the walls with b.l.o.o.d.y caveats Against all tyrants. If we did not fight Exactly, we fired muskets up the air To show that victory was ours of right.
We met, had free discussion everywhere (Except perhaps i" the Chambers) day and night.
We proved the poor should be employed, ... that"s fair,-- And yet the rich not worked for anywise,-- Pay certified, yet payers abrogated,-- Full work secured, yet liabilities To overwork excluded,--not one bated Of all our holidays, that still, at twice Or thrice a week, are moderately rated.
We proved that Austria was dislodged, or would Or should be, and that Tuscany in arms Should, would dislodge her, ending the old feud; And yet, to leave our piazzas, shops, and farms, For the simple sake of fighting, was not good-- We proved that also. "Did we carry charms Against being killed ourselves, that we should rush On killing others? what, desert herewith Our wives and mothers?--was that duty? tush!"
At which we shook the sword within the sheath Like heroes--only louder; and the flush Ran up the cheek to meet the future wreath.
Nay, what we proved, we shouted--how we shouted (Especially the boys did), boldly planting That tree of liberty, whose fruit is doubted, Because the roots are not of nature"s granting!
A tree of good and evil: none, without it, Grow G.o.ds; alas and, with it, men are wanting!
O holy knowledge, holy liberty, 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!
Men who might Do greatly in a universe that breaks And burns, must ever _know_ before they do.
Courage and patience are but sacrifice; And 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.
But here,--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 fort.i.tude can never cut a 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 just the draping of a graceful stuff About a statue, broidered at the hem,-- Not just the trilling on an opera-stage Of "liberta" 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 b.l.o.o.d.y dews Of some new morning, rising up agreed And bold, will want no Saxon souls or thews To sweep their piazzas clear of Austria"s breed.
Alas, alas! it was not so this time.
Conviction was not, courage failed, and truth Was something to be doubted of. The mime Changed masks, because a mime. The tide as smooth In running in as out, no sense of crime Because no sense of virtue,--sudden ruth Seized on the people: they would have again Their good Grand-duke and leave Guerazzi, though He took that tax from Florence. "Much in vain He takes it from the market-carts, we trow, While urgent that no market-men remain, But all march off and leave the spade and plough, To die among the Lombards. Was it thus The dear paternal Duke did? Live the Duke!"
At which the joy-bells mult.i.tudinous, Swept by an opposite wind, as loudly shook.
Call back the mild archbishop to his house, To bless the people with his frightened look,-- He shall not yet be hanged, you comprehend!
Seize on Guerazzi; guard him in full view, Or else we stab him in the back, to end!
Rub out those chalked devices, set up new The Duke"s arms, doff your Phrygian caps, and men The pavement of the piazzas broke into By barren poles of freedom: smooth the way For the ducal carriage, lest his highness sigh "Here trees of liberty grew yesterday!"
"Long live the Duke!"--how roared the cannonry, How rocked the bell-towers, and through thickening spray Of nosegays, wreaths, and kerchiefs tossed on high, How marched the civic guard, the people still Being good at shouts, especially the boys!
Alas, poor people, of an unfledged will Most fitly expressed by such a callow voice!
Alas, still poorer Duke, incapable Of being worthy even of so much noise!
You think he came back instantly, with thanks And tears in his faint eyes, and hands extended To stretch the franchise through their utmost ranks?
That having, like a father, apprehended, He came to pardon fatherly those pranks Played out and now in filial service ended?-- That some love-token, like a prince, he threw To meet the people"s love-call, in return?
Well, how he came I will relate to you; And if your hearts should burn, why, hearts _must_ burn, To make the ashes which things old and new Shall be washed clean in--as this Duke will learn.
From Casa Guidi windows gazing, then, I saw and witness how the Duke came back.
The regular tramp of horse and tread of men Did smite the silence like an anvil black And sparkless. With her wide eyes at full strain, Our Tuscan nurse exclaimed "Alack, alack, Signora! these shall be the Austrians." "Nay, Be still," I answered, "do not wake the child!"
--For so, my two-months" baby sleeping lay In milky dreams upon the bed and smiled, And I thought "He shall sleep on, while he may, Through the world"s baseness: not being yet defiled, Why should he be disturbed by what is done?"
Then, gazing, I beheld the long-drawn street Live out, from end to end, full in the sun, With Austria"s thousand; sword and bayonet, Horse, foot, artillery,--cannons rolling on Like blind slow storm-clouds gestant with the heat Of undeveloped lightnings, each bestrode By a single man, dust-white from head to heel, Indifferent as the dreadful thing he rode, Like a sculptured Fate serene and terrible.
As some smooth river which has overflowed Will slow and silent down its current wheel A loosened forest, all the pines erect, So swept, in mute significance of storm, The marshalled thousands; not an eye deflect To left or right, to catch a novel form Of Florence city adorned by architect And carver, or of Beauties live and warm Scared at the cas.e.m.e.nts,--all, straightforward eyes And faces, held as steadfast as their swords, And cognizant of acts, not imageries.
The key, O Tuscans, too well fits the wards!
Ye asked for mimes,--these bring you tragedies: For purple,--these shall wear it as your lords.
Ye played like children,--die like innocents.
Ye mimicked lightnings with a torch,--the crack Of the actual bolt, your pastime circ.u.mvents.
Ye called up ghosts, believing they were slack To follow any voice from Gilboa"s tents, ...
Here"s Samuel!--and, so, Grand-dukes come back!
And yet, they are no prophets though they come: That awful mantle, they are drawing close, Shall be searched, one day, by the shafts of Doom Through double folds now hoodwinking the brows.
Resuscitated monarchs disentomb Grave-reptiles with them, in their new life-throes.
Let such beware. Behold, the people waits, Like G.o.d: as He, in His serene of might, So they, in their endurance of long straits.
Ye stamp no nation out, though day and night Ye tread them with that absolute heel which grates And grinds them flat from all attempted height.
You kill worms sooner with a garden-spade Than you kill peoples: peoples will not die; The tail curls stronger when you lop the head: They writhe at every wound and multiply And shudder into a heap of life that"s made Thus vital from G.o.d"s own vitality.
"T is hard to shrivel back a day of G.o.d"s Once fixed for judgment: "t is as hard to change The peoples, when they rise beneath their loads And heave them from their backs with violent wrench To crush the oppressor; for that judgment-rod"s The measure of this popular revenge.
Meanwhile, from Casa Guidi windows, we Beheld the armament of Austria flow Into the drowning heart of Tuscany: And yet none wept, none cursed, or, if "t was so, They wept and cursed in silence. Silently Our noisy Tuscans watched the invading foe; They had learnt silence. Pressed against the wall, And grouped upon the church-steps opposite, A few pale men and women stared at all.
G.o.d knows what they were feeling, with their white Constrained faces, they, so prodigal Of cry and gesture when the world goes right, Or wrong indeed. But here was depth of wrong, And here, still water; they were silent here; And through that sentient silence, struck along That measured tramp from which it stood out clear, Distinct the sound and silence, like a gong At midnight, each by the other awfuller,-- While every soldier in his cap displayed A leaf of olive. Dusty, bitter thing!
Was such plucked at Novara, is it said?
A cry is up in England, which doth ring The hollow world through, that for ends of trade And virtue and G.o.d"s better worshipping, We henceforth should exalt the name of Peace And leave those rusty wars that eat the soul,-- Besides their clippings at our golden fleece.
I, too, have loved peace, and from bole to bole Of immemorial undeciduous trees Would write, as lovers use upon a scroll, The holy name of Peace and set it high Where none could pluck it down. On trees, I say,-- Not upon gibbets!--With the greenery Of dewy branches and the flowery May, Sweet mediation betwixt earth and sky Providing, for the shepherd"s holiday.
Not upon gibbets! though the vulture leaves The bones to quiet, which he first picked bare.
Not upon dungeons! though the wretch who grieves And groans within less stirs the outer air Than any little field-mouse stirs the sheaves.
Not upon chain-bolts! though the slave"s despair Has dulled his helpless miserable brain And left him blank beneath the freeman"s whip To sing and laugh out idiocies of pain.
Nor yet on starving homes! where many a lip Has sobbed itself asleep through curses vain.
I love no peace which is not fellowship And which includes not mercy. I would have Rather the raking of the guns across The world, and shrieks against Heaven"s architrave; Rather the struggle in the slippery fosse Of dying men and horses, and the wave Blood-bubbling.... Enough said!--by Christ"s own cross, And by this faint heart of my womanhood, Such things are better than a Peace that sits Beside a hearth in self-commended mood, And takes no thought how wind and rain by fits Are howling out of doors against the good Of the poor wanderer. What! your peace admits Of outside anguish while it keeps at home?
I loathe to take its name upon my tongue.
"T is nowise peace: "t is treason, stiff with doom,-- "T is gagged despair and inarticulate wrong,-- Annihilated Poland, stifled Rome, Dazed Naples, Hungary fainting "neath the thong, And Austria wearing a smooth olive-leaf On her brute forehead, while her hoofs outpress The life from these Italian souls, in brief.
O Lord of Peace, who art Lord of Righteousness, Constrain the anguished worlds from sin and grief, Pierce them with conscience, purge them with redress, And give us peace which is no counterfeit!