I. The Pope on Christmas Day Sits in Saint Peter’s chair; But the peoples murmur and say “Our souls are sick and forlorn, And who will show us where Is the stable where Christ was born?” II. The star is lost in the dark; The manger is lost in the straw; The Christ cries faintly ... hark!... Through bands that swaddle and strangle— But the Pope in the chair of awe Looks down the great quadrangle. 214 III. The Magi kneel at his foot, Kings of the East and West, But, instead of the angels (mute Is the “Peace on earth” of their song), The peoples, perplexed and opprest, Are sighing “How long, how long?” IV. And, instead of the kine, bewilder in Shadow of aisle and dome, The bear who tore up the children, The fox who burnt up the corn, And the wolf who suckled at Rome Brothers to slay and to scorn. V. Cardinals left and right of him, Worshippers round and beneath, The silver trumpets at sight of him Thrill with a musical blast: But the people say through their teeth, “Trumpets? we wait for the Last!” 215 VI. He sits in the place of the Lord, And asks for the gifts of the time; Gold, for the haft of a sword To win back Romagna averse, Incense, to sweeten a crime, And myrrh, to embitter a curse. VII. Then a king of the West said “Good!— I bring thee the gifts of the time; Red, for the patriot’s blood, Green, for the martyr’s crown, White, for the dew and the rime, When the morning of God comes down.” VIII. —O mystic tricolor bright! The Pope’s heart quailed like a man’s; The cardinals froze at the sight, Bowing their tonsures hoary: And the eyes in the peacock-fans Winked at the alien glory. 216 IX. But the peoples exclaimed in hope, “Now blessed be he who has brought These gifts of the time to the Pope, When our souls were sick and forlorn. —And here is the star we sought, To show us where Christ was born!”

217

ITALY AND THE WORLD.

I. Florence, Bologna, Parma, Modena: When you named them a year ago, So many graves reserved by God, in a Day of Judgment, you seemed to know, To open and let out the resurrection. II. And meantime (you made your reflection If you were English), was nought to be done But sorting sables, in predilection For all those martyrs dead and gone, Till the new earth and heaven made ready. 218 III. And if your politics were not heady, Violent, ... “Good,” you added, “good In all things! Mourn on sure and steady. Churchyard thistles are wholesome food For our European wandering asses. IV. “The date of the resurrection passes Human foreknowledge: men unborn Will gain by it (even in the lower classes), But none of these. It is not the morn Because the cock of France is crowing. V. “Cocks crow at midnight, seldom knowing Starlight from dawn-light! ’t is a mad Poor creature.” Here you paused, and growing Scornful,—suddenly, let us add, The trumpet sounded, the graves were open. 219 VI. Life and life and life! agrope in The dusk of death, warm hands, stretched out For swords, proved more life still to hope in, Beyond and behind. Arise with a shout, Nation of Italy, slain and buried! VII. Hill to hill and turret to turret Flashing the tricolor,—newly created Beautiful Italy, calm, unhurried, Rise heroic and renovated, Rise to the final restitution. VIII. Rise; prefigure the grand solution Of earth’s municipal, insular schisms,— Statesmen draping self-love’s conclusion In cheap vernacular patriotisms, Unable to give up Judæa for Jesus. 220 IX. Bring us the higher example; release us Into the larger coming time: And into Christ’s broad garment piece us Rags of virtue as poor as crime, National selfishness, civic vaunting. X. No more Jew nor Greek then,—taunting Nor taunted;—no more England nor France! But one confederate brotherhood planting One flag only, to mark the advance, Onward and upward, of all humanity. XI. For civilization perfected Is fully developed Christianity. “Measure the frontier,” shall it be said, “Count the ships,” in national vanity? —Count the nation’s heart-beats sooner. 221 XII. For, though behind by a cannon or schooner, That nation still is predominant Whose pulse beats quickest in zeal to oppugn or Succour another, in wrong or want, Passing the frontier in love and abhorrence. XIII. Modena, Parma, Bologna, Florence, Open us out the wider way! Dwarf in that chapel of old Saint Lawrence Your Michel Angelo’s giant Day, With the grandeur of this Day breaking o’er us! XIV. Ye who, restrained as an ancient chorus, Mute while the coryphæus spake, Hush your separate voices before us, Sink your separate lives for the sake Of one sole Italy’s living for ever! 222 XV. Givers of coat and cloak too,—never Grudging that purple of yours at the best, By your heroic will and endeavour Each sublimely dispossessed, That all may inherit what each surrenders! XVI. Earth shall bless you, O noble emenders On egotist nations! Ye shall lead The plough of the world, and sow new splendours Into the furrow of things for seed,— Ever the richer for what ye have given. XVII. Lead us and teach us, till earth and heaven Grow larger around us and higher above. Our sacrament-bread has a bitter leaven; We bait our traps with the name of love, Till hate itself has a kinder meaning. 223 XVIII. Oh, this world: this cheating and screening Of cheats! this conscience for candle-wicks, Not beacon-fires! this overweening Of underhand diplomatical tricks, Dared for the country while scorned for the counter! XIX. Oh, this envy of those who mount here, And oh, this malice to make them trip! Rather quenching the fire there, drying the fount here, To frozen body and thirsty lip, Than leave to a neighbour their ministration. XX. I cry aloud in my poet-passion, Viewing my England o’er Alp and sea. I loved her more in her ancient fashion: She carries her rifles too thick for me Who spares them so in the cause of a brother. 224 XXI. Suspicion, panic? end this pother. The sword, kept sheathless at peace-time, rusts. None fears for himself while he feels for another: The brave man either fights or trusts, And wears no mail in his private chamber. XXII. Beautiful Italy! golden amber Warm with the kisses of lover and traitor! Thou who hast drawn us on to remember, Draw us to hope now: let us be greater By this new future than that old story. XXIII. Till truer glory replaces all glory, As the torch grows blind at the dawn of day; And the nations, rising up, their sorry And foolish sins shall put away, As children their toys when the teacher enters. 225 XXIV. Till Love’s one centre devour these centres Of many self-loves; and the patriot’s trick To better his land by egotist ventures, Defamed from a virtue, shall make men sick, As the scalp at the belt of some red hero. XXV. For certain virtues have dropped to zero, Left by the sun on the mountain’s dewy side; Churchman’s charities, tender as Nero, Indian suttee, heathen suicide, Service to rights divine, proved hollow: XXVI. And Heptarchy patriotisms must follow. —National voices, distinct yet dependent, Ensphering each other, as swallow does swallow, With circles still widening and ever ascendant, In multiform life to united progression,— 226 XXVII. These shall remain. And when, in the session Of nations, the separate language is heard, Each shall aspire, in sublime indiscretion, To help with a thought or exalt with a word Less her own than her rival’s honour. XXVIII. Each Christian nation shall take upon her The law of the Christian man in vast: The crown of the getter shall fall to the donor, And last shall be first while first shall be last, And to love best shall still be, to reign unsurpassed.

227

A CURSE FOR A NATION.

PROLOGUE.

I heard an angel speak last night, And he said “Write! Write a Nation’s curse for me, And send it over the Western Sea.” I faltered, taking up the word: “Not so, my lord! If curses must be, choose another To send thy curse against my brother. “For I am bound by gratitude, By love and blood, To brothers of mine across the sea, Who stretch out kindly hands to me.” 228 “Therefore,” the voice said, “shalt thou write My curse to-night. From the summits of love a curse is driven, As lightning is from the tops of heaven.” “Not so,” I answered. “Evermore My heart is sore For my own land’s sins: for little feet Of children bleeding along the street: “For parked-up honours that gainsay The right of way: For almsgiving through a door that is Not open enough for two friends to kiss: “For love of freedom which abates Beyond the Straits: For patriot virtue starved to vice on Self-praise, self-interest, and suspicion: “For an oligarchic parliament, And bribes well-meant. What curse to another land assign, When heavy-souled for the sins of mine?” 229 “Therefore,” the voice said, “shalt thou write My curse to-night. Because thou hast strength to see and hate A foul thing done within thy gate.” “Not so,” I answered once again. “To curse, choose men. For I, a woman, have only known How the heart melts and the tears run down.” “Therefore,” the voice said, “shalt thou write My curse to-night. Some women weep and curse, I say (And no one marvels), night and day. “And thou shalt take their part to-night, Weep and write. A curse from the depths of womanhood Is very salt, and bitter, and good.” So thus I wrote, and mourned indeed, What all may read. And thus, as was enjoined on me, I send it over the Western Sea.