Thou who didst dare th' unknown, precarious sea,
And down the unbounded winds adventurous roam,
Searching the world's horizons for a home,
A haven for the heart of liberty:—
Boaster of freedom, found no longer free,
What vaporous phantom from time's ocean-foam
Blurs the translucence of th' eternal dome
Where sang the burning stars that beckoned thee?
Thy heart hath caught the siren's doom-sweet cries,
And sips oblivion at fond Circe's nod.
Oh! for a seer whose soul is lightning-shod,
To stand imperial 'gainst th' impervious skies,
As Lincoln stood, with brave heaven-gazing eyes,
To appeal from guile's impermanence to God!
TO ITALY
I.
Italia, seated by the sapphire sea,
Crooning of summers rich from long ago,
Dreamer mid dreams, thy peerless face aglow
With rare romance and passionate poesy;
Hath time's delirium taken even thee,
Mother of Petrarch, Raphael, Angelo?
And dost thou purblind speed to weltering woe,
Dead to the wonder that was Italy?
Farewell thy peace, farewell thy pride, farewell
The roseate rapture of the radiant years.
Thy breast shall nourish sorrows, and thy fears
Shall haunt the olives and the sunset bell;
Ah, thou shalt sigh for Francis and his cell,
And beat with Dante to the bourn of tears.