With their green laurel-bough.
Then was triumph at Turin: “Ancona was free!”
And some one came out of the cheers in the street,
With a face pale as stone, to say something to me,—
My Guido was dead! I fell down at his feet,
While they cheered in the street.
I bore it; friends soothed me; my grief looked sublime
As the ransom of Italy. One boy remained
To be leant on and walked with, recalling the time
When the first grew immortal, while both of us strained